


Convenience

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU: arranged marriage, Angst, BAMF John, Epistolary, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Letters, M/M, Misunderstandings, Slow Burn, hesitant sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-13 14:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 31,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3384305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's family, thrust into debt after his father's death, takes a deal. The Holmes' are eager to marry off their younger son and do so with the promise of settling the Watson's debt and paying for a new flat for Mrs Watson.</p><p>John is depressed by the situation while Sherlock is livid. </p><p>John is sent off to war before the two men are even able to meet and the marriage goes through while John is overseas.</p><p>How can two people who've never met deal with being bound together for the rest of their lives?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts).



Marriage of convenience, that's what they were calling it. The whole idea made John's stomach turn. Sure, he knew his family was in horrible debt after his father's battle with liver cancer hadn't paid out, but there had to be some other way. He'd drop out of the military, he'd get a job, he'd do something.

His mother was crying, Jesus.

"I'm sorry, John, I really am. He's not a bad boy," she said, sniffling and holding a handkerchief to her nose.

John broke down and sat next to her, arm around the woman trying to soothe her, "it'll be alright."  
_____

"What do you mean you've made a deal?" Sherlock hissed, gripping the arms of the chair he was sitting in and grinding his teeth.

"Really, Sherlock, it's all for the best. You need someone to look after you and this John fellow is a doctor," Mycroft said as if it were a completely rational arrangement.

"This John fellow? You mean my soon to be husband?" Sherlock growled.

"Don't be so dramatic, Sherlock. They're old family friends and they needed help," Mycroft replied with a drawn out sigh and a shake of his newspaper.

Sherlock picked up his tea and threw it at the wall, eliciting no response from Mycroft as he stomped from the room.  
_____

Mortar rained down on them for the whole of the night, the new lads not taking it well, and John couldn't sleep. It wasn't the artillery fire or the fact that he was all these miles from home in what felt like a dungeon in the middle of a war he didn't think they should be fighting. It was something altogether more upsetting.

He turned the paper over in his hands again and then slipped it back into the envelope. When he set the envelope on his cot something small rolled out. He picked it up, a simple gold band, and swallowed roughly. Inside was a small engraving, three short words; in due time. He didn't know what they meant. He tried to shake off the dull burning in his chest as he took off the ball chain around his neck and added the ring. No getting around it.  
_____

The first letter came a week later. John was relaxing in the mess hall with the lads when mail was passed out. His stomach clenched up and he was suddenly very aware of the sound the gold band made moving against his id tags, a sort of scratching that made his mind muddy.

"Christ, Cap, did someone die?" Murray asked when he saw the color leave John's face.

"No...no," John replied absently as he turned the envelope over in his hands.

"Well, aren't you gonna open it?" Murray asked, taking a seat next to John out of habit and slinging an arm around him, "who's it from."

"My, um, it's from my husband," John replied, not sure why his cheeks were heating up. It wasn't like Murray didn't know he was bisexual. Maybe the shame was to do with the fact that John had never even met the man, this Sherlock.

"You're bloody married?" Murray demanded, "show us a picture of the lucky bastard!"

John fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat, "I, um, I don't have one," he said.

Murray looked on quizzically as John opened the envelope and pulled out a few pieces of thick paper folded in thirds. John unfolded them and a small square paper fell out. On the back, in a sloppy scrawl, was the name Sherlock Holmes and the date, one week prior.

Murray grabbed it quickly and flipped it over, "cor, he's pretty," he said, seemingly taken aback.

John swallowed as the photo was handed back and looked it over. He'd seen a photo of Sherlock once, before he was deployed, but it had only been a grainy silhouette. This one was in focus and Sherlock was looking directly at the camera. His eyes were intense, as was the scowl he held. Murray was right, though, he was gorgeous, in a peculiar sort of way. 

"Are you going to read it?" Murray asked.

John cleared his throat and pushed the papers back into the envelope, slipping the photo into his pocket and turning away.

"In my bunk," he said gruffly.  
_____

A week prior-

Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed holding a thick file. It had taken months to talk Mycroft out of it but the older man had finally given in. Inside was every single form written on John H. Watson, spanning from year two on. Every report card, every disciplinary action taken, every promotion and reprimand. He smoothed his hand over the cover and slowly took out the first page.

'John is getting along well with his classmates. He plays gently with the younger students and helps them when they need it. He is coming along well in his studies and shows a keen interest in reading. 

Things to work on:

Coming back from break on time  
Maths

Mrs Fischer,  
Year Two  
Franklin Infant School'

The second page was wrinkled and stained. Sherlock flattened it along his leg and read it.

'John is a wonderful student! He is such a delight to have in the classroom. My only concern, and the reason I am writing, is that he doesn't seem to have eaten breakfast and is quite hungry by lunchtime. He is a growing boy, after all.

Mr Sander  
Year Three  
Baker Junior School'

Sherlock set that one aside and looked through all the report cards until he got to the first written disciplinary action.

'John was sent to the front office today for hitting a schoolmate at lunchtime. He said the boy had insulted his father. He was taken in for sentences and we suggest you discipline him at home as well. John really is a good lad and will do well to get his temper in check. We would hate to have to see him with anymore infractions.

Mrs Sophie Miller  
Year Five  
Baker Junior School'

The next few years in John's life seemed to be the same. Different teachers writing up formal reprimands over schoolyard fights and multiple mentions of his father. The other disturbing thing had to do with how often it was mentioned that he was in need of school supplies and new clothing. Sherlock set the papers down and sighed, running a hand through his hair and wondering exactly what his brother had got him into.

"Find what you wanted, brother dear?" Mycroft asked from the hall.

"He's a ruffian," Sherlock replied shortly.

"Hardly. How far did you get?" Mycroft asked with a blank face.

"High School," Sherlock said, and when Mycroft rolled his eyes added, "it suggests a pattern of behavior, Mycroft, something unlikely to change."

"His father was a drunkard," Mycroft said, "and his older sibling was bullied for being homosexual."

"And he was neglected, yes, I get the picture," Sherlock said with a sigh as he lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

"I don't think you do, Sherlock. You can't hold that against him. I'll ask that you read the rest, in your own time, before you make any final decisions."

Sherlock waved his hand, signaling that he thought the conversation tired and was no longer a willing participant, and Mycroft left him alone. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what the man would sound like, rough voice perhaps, penchant for the drink just like his father. He wondered about the time when John was to come home, wondered if he'd be abusive. His stomach turned painfully and he bit his lip hard, letting the pain distract him momentarily before getting up and going for a smoke.


	2. Immunoglobulin A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock writes his letter.

As Sherlock stood on his patio smoking he thought about the things that could get him out of this situation. John could die in the war. He could be hit by some sort of bullet or shrapnel and never come home. He wondered if his brother would believe he was grieving and just pay someone to live with him instead of trying to find him another husband. People did that, didn't they, grieve long term. He was sure there were some people who grieved until the day they died. He could wear black forever, he looked good in black. Maybe it would mean he could get away with eating less. Grief seemed the best route.

He took a long drag and squeezed his eyes shut tight, blinked rapidly and did it again. Nothing. He really needed to learn to cry on cue. He guessed he'd have to try to learn now, the call could come at anytime, well, letter. That's what they did in the army, they sent you a letter to tell you your loved one had died. 

He took a last pull on he filter and stubbed the butt out before walking back into his room and sitting at his desk. Mycroft had asked that he write John a letter and he found it an ample opportunity to prove to this man, his husband, that he was highly undesirable. He would only have to exaggerate a bit, he knew, he was undesirable already.

He fingered the ring in his pocket, the thin gold band Mycroft had made for him, his wedding ring. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, running his index finger along the engraving on the inner rim, the one he'd had bloody nothing to do with, thank you very much. In due time. It was disgustingly romantic, something he hoped John didn't take to heart.

He opened his eyes and picked up a pen to start the letter.  
_____

One week later-

John sat on his cot and pulled the two pieces of paper out. He swore he could feel the photo in his pocket, the tiny square burning away at his skin. He wasn't sure why he hadn't slipped it back into the envelope. He ignored the way something fluttered nervously in his chest and started to read.

'John Watson,

I was told that I should write you, something about sentiment or some such nonsense. I was against the idea but I've been told it's a near requirement so here it is. I suppose I'll have to take up at least one page to assuage their guilt for pressing me into this unwanted arrangement so I thought I'd tell you about the experiment I'm working on at the moment. Not that I think you might be interested, mind you, but as I said, to fill space.

Saliva really is an interesting compound. There's quite a lot of it in my fridge at the moment, I've been stockpiling it a bit, I admit. It's considered to be one of the worst smelling things, once it's out of the human mouth, that is. It doesn't hold well. Awful stuff, but interesting. I'm making a chart of the amount of digestive fluid in saliva between alive and deceased patients at Bart's. Mycroft tells me that's where you studied, perhaps when you come back I won't have to steal specimens like I do now.

Anyhow, back to the topic at hand. Human saliva is 99.5% water, while the other 0.5% consists of electrolytes, mucus, glycoproteins, enzymes, and antibacterial compounds such as secretory IgA and lysozyme. 

Immunoglobulin A (IgA, also referred to as sIgA) is an antibody that plays a critical role in mucosal immunity. More IgA is produced in mucosal linings than all other types of antibody combined; between three and five grams are secreted into the intestinal lumen each day. This accumulates up to 15% of the total immunoglobulin produced in the entire body.

IgA has two subclasses (IgA1 and IgA2) and can exist in a dimeric form called secretory IgA (sIgA). In its secretory form, IgA is the main immunoglobulin found in mucous secretions, including tears, saliva, sweat, colostrum and secretions from the genitourinary tract, gastrointestinal tract, prostate and respiratory epithelium. It is also found in small amounts in blood. The secretory component of sIgA protects the immunoglobulin from being degraded by proteolytic enzymes, thus sIgA can survive in the harsh gastrointestinal tract environment and provide protection against microbes that multiply in body secretions. sIgA can also inhibit inflammatory effects of other immunoglobulins. IgA is a poor activator of the complement system, and opsonises only weakly. Its heavy chains are of the type α.

The enzymes found in saliva are essential in beginning the process of digestion of dietary starches and fats. These enzymes also play a role in breaking down food particles entrapped within dental crevices, protecting teeth from bacterial decay. Furthermore, saliva serves a lubricative function, wetting food and permitting the initiation of swallowing, and protecting the mucosal surfaces of the oral cavity from desiccation.

Various species have special uses for saliva that go beyond predigestion. Some swifts use their gummy saliva to build nests. Aerodramus nests are prized for use in bird's nest soup. Cobras, vipers, and certain other members of the venom clade hunt with venomous saliva injected by fangs. Some arthropods, such as spiders and caterpillars, create thread from salivary glands.

I've been thinking about getting a few, spiders, that is. I could keep them in a terrarium on my desk or on the mantelpiece if I moved the skull. Would you mind spiders?

Well, that should be enough to make my brother happy. He's spent his entire, well, my entire life pestering me. I swear he finds this all so very interesting. You've got an older sibling, so I'm sure you know what I mean. 

I suppose you could send me a vial of your saliva if you wanted to be especially helpful. Otherwise, I'm sure I'll hear from you soon.

Sherlock Holmes'

John set the papers down and lay back on the cot with his legs hanging over the edge. The first laugh was unexpected, the second even more so. By the time he was bent in half, body tight and laughing uncontrollably, he knew he had to do it. He had to send this bizarre man some of his spit. God, it would be horrid by the time it got there, but that would serve him, wouldn't it? 

He tried to control his breathing a bit, with minor success, and stood to retrieve a pen to write and an old notepad that had sat in his bunk since before it was his. On it he started a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the info on saliva was taken verbatim from Wikipedia. It's meant to be dull to anyone who doesn't want to learn about saliva as Sherlock is trying to out John off. I personally suggest you indulge your salivary interests in the book 'Gulp' by Mary Roach. It's extre fun, like all her books, and a real interesting read. Mary Roach, that woman knows how to write.


	3. Dear Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John writes back

'Dear Sherlock,

Inside this letter you will have found a vial of my saliva. I hope that it is alright that it will take so long to get to you as I've made sure it was temperature sure. Please keep me in the loop on your study as I would like to know how I measure up to a corpse.

As for spiders, no. I wouldn't mind a spider or two. There are ones here that grow as big as your hand. Harmless unless you try to get into a bag without shaking it out first. I can see if I can get you a deceased specimen if you'd like, I've seen them preserved in jars like pickled yams. 

Things aren't going well here. I sometimes wonder if we're fighting the right battle. I don't mean that I'll stop, don't get me wrong, but I think we're going about it the wrong way. The children here are so kind and a lot of the locals come and bring us treats and join us for card games. I don't get to help enough, it's awful but true, and I see so many people each day that really just need a GP. Maybe someday I'll come back, after the war and all, and work a few months out of the year. 

It's not always like that, of course, and we are in a lull, but it grates a bit. I guess I should be happy that we've got so many days with no action, but the long distance travel to get to action, and the mortar that falls at least once a week isn't the kind of action I suppose I'm looking for. I hope that doesn't sound horrible.

I know very little about you, it's just occurred to me now. What do you do? I'd say scientist but I'm sure my mother mentioned something else. 

I'd better get going now. Let me know if there's anything else I can send your way.

John'


	4. Back Into The Fray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see a little of Sherlock's response to the letter and saliva and get a bit of back story on Mycroft.

Sherlock held the vial of saliva in his hand, rolling it back and forth and looking between it and the letter. He was stumped. Why in god's name was this man going along with the ruse? Did he know it was a ruse? Was his response a ruse? Why was he-

"Do you know you've been saying the word ruse over and over for two minutes?" Mycroft asked from the chair across from him.

Sherlock's head popped up and he scrunched his nose in distaste.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, sure his brother was meant to be back in his London townhouse by then.

"Just came by to check on you," Mycroft said. "I wanted to let you know mummy and father are coming back in a month's time and remind you that your things need to be out of my garage by then."

"Yes, yes, I know they're coming back!" Sherlock spit. "And you don't really need my things to be out. You don't ever use the space."

"I don't, you're right, it's the principle. When you were kicked out of your flat at the beginning of spring I told you that I would keep them for three months. You need a flat, Sherlock. You can't just stay here forever."

"If you're going to threaten me you'd do better by using information that's true," Sherlock said with a spiteful grin. "You know mummy would let me move back in a heartbeat."

"Yes, and she'd keep on you to make friends and eat three meals a day," Mycroft shot back. "I'd give you a week at best before you were on the street."

"Leave me alone," Sherlock said with a huff, standing and moving to the kitchen where he'd set up his microscope, and pouring some of the saliva from the vial onto a slide.

"What exactly did he send you?" Mycroft asked as he stood and walked after Sherlock.

"Nothing," Sherlock mumbled, folding the letter and slipping it into his breast pocket before taking a seat on his old, beat up stool, one of his the only things he had taken out of 'storage' that wasn't science based, and switching the microscope on.

Mycroft took a step towards the table and picked the vial up carefully between thumb and index finger. He lifted it to his face and just as Sherlock was saying 'You don't want to do that.' breathed tentatively through his nose.

"Saliva?" He asked, face tight in disbelief and disgust.

"Yes, if you must know. I asked John to send me a sample so he did," Sherlock said snidely. 

"You asked for his saliva and he sent it to you," Mycroft said slowly, and then with a turn added, "Sherlock, have you made a friend?"

"Do shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock replied in what he hoped sounded like an absent tone.

Mycroft grinned and went to his briefcase to pull a single piece of bone-white paper out and bring it to sit next to Sherlock's hand on the table.

"This is the list Anthea drew up for you. There are five suitable flats here. If you don't find one on your own by next Saturday your things will be sent to the one I deem fit," Mycroft purred, fingers still on the list.

Sherlock shot up at that, stool sent with a clamber to the floor, and tried his best to loom over his taller counterpart.

"Next Saturday?" he demanded. "That's only a week? How am I to find a flat in a week?"

"How you do everything, I suppose, in the most difficult manner possible," Mycroft said flatly as he turned to leave.

"Prick," Sherlock mumbled.

"Language, Sherlock," Mycroft replied from the door.  
_____

Anthea was waiting for Mycroft at the kerb and opened the door to the dark sedan as her boss neared. He nodded to her and took his seat inside, waiting patiently for her to sit across from him and give instructions to the driver. She did and they were off.

"How is it going?" she asked once they were on their way.

"Better than I could have hoped. I don't think Sherlock knows what to do with himself," Mycroft replied with a soft smile, one reserved for Anthea's presence and her's alone.

"That army fellow is a bit odd, isn't he, sir?" she said as she continued to type away at her mobile.

"Mmm," he agreed. "Quite."

The car pulled to a stop and Anthea exited and held the door open. Mycroft got out and started to walk up the front steps of his favorite hotel with Anthea at his heels. They made it up to the third storey and then went their separate ways without a word.

The room was made up just how he liked it and he poured himself a drink before walking to the large claw-foot tub and turning the faucet on. The water ran and he sipped his brandy as it heated. The situation was going much better than he'd expected but that wasn't because he didn't think the two would get on, he just thought it would take a bit more time, hence the engraving on the rings. 

When the water was ready he set down his drink and removed his jacket carefully before unbuttoning his shirt and taking off his tie. He caught a brief view of the gnarled scar over his left bicep as he slipped the shirt off and had to breathe pointedly not to get thrown back into thinking about that night, that horrid night two years before.  
_____

Two years prior-

This was the last. This was the last bloody time he'd be convinced to go into the field. Once he got back to the office (if he ever did, a little voice supplied) he'd refuse to leave again. Perhaps he'd even refuse to leave London, that way he couldn't be harangued into something like this again.

'It'll take two days, three at most,' Sherril had said. 'Nothing too difficult, nothing you can't handle.'

Well, that had been a lie. 

Christ, it was hot here. How did people manage to live in such heat. And the sand, the grit! Sand which then, as he was thinking, was drawing his blood deeper into it like a greedy sponge. 

Mummy will cry. Oh, how mummy will cry. Who will look after Sherlock? Oh, God, who will look after Sherlock?

"Hey, come on, look at me," a man said from his side. "Yeah, that's it. It's alright. Barely scraped you. I'll get it cleaned up right away."

Mycroft looked him in the eyes and nodded once before wincing as he was pulled away from what he realised was continued gunfire and screaming. The man pulled him out of it all and was then grabbing a small bag and cleaning the wound.

"This'll sting," the man said.

It wasn't a lie. Mycroft gritted his teeth at the pain as he saw the debris flush from his wound. There was a lot of blood. Quite a lot.

"Isn't this quite a lot of blood?" he asked as the man pressed hard against the bullet hole before cutting away his shirtsleeve.

"Cor, no! This is nothing. I'll have you fixed in a mo," the man said with a smile that Mycroft had a feeling might pull deeply at something in a weaker man.

Just then there was an explosion and the man wrapped Mycroft's body with his own. When he drew back there was blood running down and making his dark blond hair stick to the side of his head.

"You're hit," Mycroft said loudly.

"Just a bit of the building, don't worry. I'm going to pack this and I'll finish up when we get back to the camp," the man said.

"What's your name?" Mycroft asked as his arm was quickly readied.

"Watson," the man replied. "You hold tight, now, I'm going to look for survivors."

Mycroft was reminded again that he was being an absolute infant about this whole thing and that people's lives were truly at stake as the man, Watson, ran back into the fray.


	5. Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get more of Mycroft's story and John gets a surprising phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so absolutely thrilled that you guys are loving the story as much as I am!

The medic, Watson, pulled three men from the field while Mycroft sat leaning against the Humvee. Christ, it was bad. Mycroft had never felt like more of a pathetic child, so distressed by a simple bullet wound to his arm while soldiers were losing limbs. How pathetically human, he was. 

Watson worked to stabalise the men and women on their ride back to base, the way bumpy and now dark. When they arrived Mycroft was moved into the medical bay along with the other soldiers, 'soldiers', he thought, 'for I'm an interloper', and given a bed. Watson came to his side after scrubbing up and he expected the man to start in on his wound.

"Madel is going to sew you up. I don't think we'll need to pack the wound," he said as a man tied him into a gown. "She'll give you a shot to deaden the area."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "you won't be doing it?" He asked, honestly wanting to spend more time watching the man work close up.

"No, sorry, I've got a bit more to do," Watson replied.

"Doctor," a woman called from the other side of the bay, "we're ready for you."

Watson tipped his head and Mycroft was left staring as the medic-turned-doctor went and preformed six surgeries in quick succession, hands deft and precise. This man, Mycroft realised, really was a marvel.

_____

Many hours later, alone in the barracks, Mycroft was surprised to be visited by the man.

"Hey," he said, eyes tired but focussed. "Just wanted to see that you're comfortable."

Mycroft straightened up and nodded, "quite, thank you, doctor."

"Good," Watson replied, taking a seat next to Mycroft on his cot. "This is your first tour, isn't it?"

Mycroft cleared his throat and nodded again, "am I really that transparent?"

Watson chuckled, "it's alright to be out of your element these first few months. I just wanted to let you know. It's okay to be thrown a bit by your first injury, too."

"I appreciate your concern and I promise I won't be anymore trouble for you," Mycroft replied. "I believe I'll be out by the end of the week."

"Oh, being transferred?" Watson asked.

"Something like that," Mycroft replied.

A rambunctious man ran into the room just then with a wide grin, "oi, Johnny boy, we've got a game on, you commin?"

"Well, then, I think you'd better join us for a game of poker," Watson said to Mycroft with a smile. "Come on, then."

_____

Mycroft lay back in the hot water in his hotel room and reminisced about the week spent with this man, this man who seemed to accept him for all his eccentricities. He stood up for the newer recruits multiple times and worked hard on inclusion. Mycroft had realised then that it must be what it felt like to have a friend. Now his heart ached a bit at the loss. 

He pushed it aside and thought next about how fortuitous it had been that his mother had mentioned an old friend of hers had fallen on hard times, a Lizzy Watson. Mummy of course was ready to give the woman all the opportunity she needed to get out of debt and Mycroft had told her he'd take care of it as she was just heading off to their summer home in Paris.

That the woman had been distraught over signing her son over to the Holmes' had surprised Mycroft, it was simply a coming together of two families. That was how most of the marriages happened in his family and how he knew he would be wed someday. He supposed it wasn't as common in the lower classes and tried to ignore the feeling of slight betrayal, he knew Sherlock would be upset.

Sherlock had indeed been upset, volatile even, he hadn't realised Mycroft knew what was best for him. The brat still didn't think Mycroft had his best interests in mind. He always was so stubborn.

Mycroft slipped back into the water with a sigh and closed his eyes. It would all work out, was even beginning to do so now.

_____

The next week Sherlock lay face down on the sofa. He wasn't going to read John's letter again, he just wasn't. It was all some kind of, he didn't know, joke, yes, some kind of joke. John was probably passing the letter he wrote around to all his 'mates' right now and laughing about him. He hadn't meant the things he wrote, he didn't really care about any of it.

There was a knock on the door. 'Bloody hell. Was Mycroft really knocking now? Just to get him off the sofa? Bastard,' he thought. He stood and went to see, throwing the door open violently. The delivery man on the other side looked surprised.

"Package for Sherlock Holmes," he said hesitantly.

Sherlock gawped at him for a moment before taking the large box and signing for it. He walked into the kitchen and set it on the table. What in god's name? The labels said it was from Afghanistan, but it couldn't be. What could be coming for him. Was John dead, was this his papers and a flag or something? His stomach turned painfully and he told himself to put that feeling away for later discussion and opened the box with a kitchen knife.

He pulled away the packing materials frantically and stopped, mouth once again hanging open. He stood there for he didn't know how long before pulling out the large glass jar and setting it on the table. 

Inside was a perfectly preserved camel spider. Perfectly. Amazing.

_____

John was sitting on his cot when Murray came to the door.

"Call for you," he said with a quirked eyebrow. "Some fancy government guy. Do you know a Mycroft Holmes?"

John stood and walked out of the room without replying. Something must have happened to Sherlock. He nearly ran towards the head office, not sure why he would care. He made it through the door and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?" he asked nervously.

"Why did you send me a spider?" a deep voice demanded.

"Oh, Christ, that was for Sherlock," John explained, taking a seat and deflating a bit. "We'd talked about spiders and I thought he might-"

"This IS Sherlock!" the man spit.

"Oh," John replied, swallowing thickly and feeling something turn over inside him, "I didn't realise. They told me it was your brother."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock replied as if it was all tedious. "That was the only way I could convince them to let me talk to you. Why did you really send me the spider?"

"Oh, well, um, I'm sorry, I thought you really might like it. I didn't mean to offend you or whatever," John said, confusion evident.

"I'm not offended, I just, I didn't think you'd really, I don't know," Sherlock said weakly, suddenly growing silent.

"Did you like it, then?" John asked after a few moments.

"Yes," Sherlock replied timidly.

"Okay, then, um, good," John said, smile playing across his lips at the sudden meekness from the other man. "This is the first time I've heard your voice, you know."

Sherlock cleared his throat, "yes. I had realised."

When he didn't say anything more John leaned back in his chair and chuckled, "it's nice. Hearing it."

"Really?" Sherlock asked in disbelief.

"Yeah, really," John said, feeling something flutter in his chest.

"I suppose it is, nice," Sherlock replied truthfully.

"I got the picture, by the way. Do you always scowl?" John asked playfully, knowing full well he was flirting and not knowing why.

"No. Yes. Maybe," Sherlock said quickly.

John laughed and drew in a deep breath, 'you're quite handsome', he thought.

"I can send another," Sherlock said, "I've been told my smile in pictures is unsettling."

"I bet it's gorgeous," John said without meaning to. "I mean, well..."

He swallowed hard as they fell into silence again. When Sherlock's voice came it was weak.

"You don't have to say that."

"No, I don't," John replied with a loud sniff.

Sherlock cleared his throat, "I'd better let you get back."

"Thank you for calling," John replied.

"Thank you for sending the spider," Sherlock said at the same time.

Sherlock started to chuckle and John was soon giggling along with him.

"We can't giggle, it's a war zone," John said playfully.

Sherlock took a deep breath, his smile coming through in his words, "goodbye, John."

"Goodbye, Sherlock," John replied, and after a moment, rang off.


	6. Mr Miller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John thinks about Sherlock and Sherlock finally gets back to John's file.

In his bunk that night John lay awake thinking about Sherlock. He didn't mean to, didn't necessarily want to even, but his brain demanded. It was such an odd conversation, the oddest he'd had in years. He felt slightly protective of the man now, silly as that was. He wondered what had happened for Sherlock to be so doubtful of his interest, how many people had shot him down or made fun of him for the things he liked. He suddenly wished he could meet him in person.

_____

Sherlock opened John's file again for the first time since he'd told Mycroft he considered him a ruffian and lay out all the pages following the ones he'd read on a circle on the floor. When Mycroft came in he didn't hear him, busy categorising John's life.

"You need to move your things, Sherlock," Mycroft said, standing behind him.

When Sherlock continued to be unresponsive Mycroft sighed and went to the desk to find a small piece of paper to write on. He wrote what he'd said and left it on the center paper in front of Sherlock. At least the man was looking at the rest of the file. It had took him long enough.

Ten minutes later Sherlock found the note and typed out a hasty response.

I'M MOVING IN THREE DAYS. THE THINGS WILL BE OUT BY THEN. SH

He didn't wait for a response before getting back to studying the life in front of him. There were countless teachers that talked about John being a very angry child and soon to be young man. They mentioned his sister and father multiple times and Sherlock wondered what it must have been like to be in John's home growing up.

Besides his unending rivalry with his brother his family life had been rather sedate, nothing quite bad enough for him to take it out on fellow school children. For some reason he'd always thought of his childhood as somewhat lacking. Through this new view he saw how incredibly wrong he had been. His family loved and cared for him and his parents never had an cross word for him that he didn't have coming. He was scolded, yes, but never abused or neglected.

He gathered three pages of interest and set them next to each other in chronological order. The story they told was of an unruly young man taken under wing and moulded into the person John had become.

'Dear Mr and Mrs Watson,

John has stopped interacting in class. I can barely get a word out of him. Whatever is going on at home needs to stop or I will have to alert the authorities. The bruises on his wrist suggest more rough treatment and I fear if you keep this up you may lose the man John could one day be forever.

Mr Miller  
Clarey High School'

'Dear Mr and Mrs Watson,

John's progress is remarkable and I'd like to thank you for letting me enroll him in the advanced class. He seems to show a keen interest in biology and life sciences. You may yet have a doctor in the family!

Mr Miller  
Clarey High School'

'Dear John Watson,

You've once again exceeded my expectations and left me behind. You are so brilliant and I'm honored to have been your professor. Congratulations on being accepted into both the army and medical school, I know you'll do us proud, thank you for letting me know.

Mr Miller  
Clarey High School'

Sherlock pulled the stack of photos out next, going through the years of John's school career slowly. He grew from a small boy with a shock of white-blond hair to a young man that had reclaimed his smile. Something tightened in Sherlock's throat and he cleared it to try to be rid of the sensation. It didn't help.


	7. Oh, Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock moves into his new flat and John gets his first care package from the genius.

Sherlock paid some of his homeless network later that week to help him move. He sat in his new flat surrounded by ten of the most loyal people he'd ever met. And they smoked. It was wonderfully relaxing to sit back and have them eat all the food Mrs Hudson had stocked his cupboards with and step onto the fire escape to share a cigarette. An absolute lack of judgement.

"Sheeza," one woman said from her place by the window. "Does the washing machine work?"

Sherlock sighed and stretched out on the sofa on his back, "I suppose it must. You can use it if you know how to run it."

"I've nothing to change into," she replied sullenly.

"Then I suppose we'll have one of those toga parties until everyone's clothes are clean. You know where the sheets are, you put them away yourself. I think you'd look stunning in blue," he said with a small smile.

"Thank you, sir," she said as she went to hand out sheets to everyone.

A young boy, 'Thomas, or something of the sort', walked over with a fitted sheet folded over and dragging a bit behind him.

"How come you don't got no friends, sir? You're a lot of fun," he said, stumbling a bit as he took a seat on the floor next to Sherlock.

Sherlock turned onto his side and pressed his face into the cushion. The boy didn't say anything more.

_____

John was just done with a rash of surgeries when he got Sherlock's next letter. Murray also set a small package on his desk and John couldn't wait to see what was in it. He scrubbed up as best he could and put off a shower until after he at least read the letter. He sat down right where he was in the medical bay and tore the envelope open as people tidied up around him and wiped away blood.

'John,

I did enjoy our conversation. I wanted you to know that. I don't often enjoy talking to anyone, most people are extremely dull.

You asked that I tell you a bit about myself so I will. I've included a few pictures just taken and my business card along with papers detailing some of my cases in a package, and my favorite tea, I'm not sure what you get out there. If there's anything else you'd like from home I can send it.

I'm a consulting detective, only one in the world, I invented the job. I assist the Met in a few cases a month, only the good ones. They need more of my help than they're willing to ask for at this point but I'm working on a rather good rapport with one of the detectives. He's going to be promoted soon, I just know it. He's the least idiotic of the group, which isn't really saying that much, but he does put up with me, and my moods, so I think he's worth keeping around.

I graduated uni last year with a degree in chemistry. I didn't enjoy university as much as others seemed to. I was under the impression that the student body would be interested in their studies more than they actually were. There were more parties than study sessions and I honestly don't know how most of them even passed their classes. Just think of the scientific progress that could be made if people stopped with their pathetic mating dances and actually put in the work to excel in their fields. That's enough about that.

I'm currently working on an experiment detailing the decomposition rates of different types of foliage found around London, written report included, and I think it will do a great deal of good once added into my index. I currently have five hundred and seventy four different soil samples taken and identified, down to their core components, in my index and I think the next route after foliage will be air quality. I hope to be able to pinpoint where someone has been within several hundred yards just by the debris extracted from their shoes. I'll let you know how it proceeds.

I play the violin. I hope that won't bother you. For when you come home, I mean. If you would like to live with me, that is, which you don't have to. I could find you a flat and give you a stipend. 

Please send me a picture when you can. I don't know why I want one but I find that I do.

Sherlock Holmes'

John set down the paper and opened the box carefully. Inside he found a box of tea, as noted, and three thick files. Under the files he found four new pictures. One seemed to be taken without Sherlock's knowledge wherein he was actually smirking a bit, obviously happy with himself. John tucked it into his pocket and looked at the rest. Two were of Sherlock when he was younger, one in his Harrow clothes and one in children's swim trunks. 

The last drew a pained sigh from John. Sherlock was smiling at the camera. Well, that wasn't quite true. Sherlock was attempting to do an impression of a smile at the camera. He was right about it being slightly off putting. What he probably didn't realise was how incredibly endearing it was, how childlike and innocent. He really was quite horrible at fake smiles. John choked down a bout of emotion and closed the letter up with the pictures and other things in the box and brought it to his bunk.

_____

He really didn't intend to have a wank over Sherlock. He only meant to get the grime and sweat off of his body and have a short, well, seeing to, before getting ready for bed. He'd been thinking about his exgirlfriend Sarah, classic wank material, when things had shifted.

The picture of Sherlock smirking came back to him, handsome as ever and so very pleased with himself. John liked the idea of him like that, confident and a bit smug. He closed his eyes and leaned his right arm against the tiles as the water fell over him and signed on fully to the fantasy. It wasn't bad, wanking to your husband, he shouldn't feel guilty.

He stroked himself slowly, fist squeezing from base to tip with an almost painfully lagging speed, and imagined Sherlock smirking like that at him. Imagined the look on his face changing when John pulled his cock out. Imagined him swallowing roughly and looking quite keen.

'You think you're smart, don't ya?' fantasy him said.

'That's, that's because I am,' Sherlock would stutter in reply.

'I think you're mouthy, let's see what we can do about that,' fantasy him said. 'On your knees.'

Sherlock would scramble to kneel before him, watching his cock with piqued interest, tongue brushing over plump bottom lip.

'Tell me everything you know about saliva, now,' fantasy him demanded.

He sped up his strokes and felt something deep in his belly tingle and grow tight, good god this was going to be intense. 

'It not only aides in digestion but also the practice of swallowing,' fantasy Sherlock would murmur, eyes dark with desire and cock full between his legs, pressing insistently against the front of his trousers.

"Oh, fuck," he growled as he started to flick his wrist on every upstroke.

'Would you like to show me?' fantasy him asked.

Fantasy Sherlock simply spread his knees, sinking lower on the ground, and opened his mouth wide, eyes not leaving John's.

John took his right hand from the wall and rested the whole of his weight against it with his shoulders, face pressed to the tiles. He thought about what it would be like to fuck that gorgeous mouth, how wet and hot it would be, and started to fuck his fist, right hand massaging the head with every thrust. He was breathing hard now, wheezing almost, and tightening his fist. He pressed his right palm to the head of his cock so it butted there almost painfully over and over again, pretending it was Sherlock's soft palate and then the opening to his throat. 

His hips snapped roughly and he started to whine in the back of his throat at the thought of those intense eyes watering a bit as Sherlock began to choke. He imagined Sherlock would nod and grasp his hips, urging him to go harder, to press his cock into his throat. His hips stuttered as tears began to fall from Sherlock's eyes in his mind and he came so hard it actually hurt, cock pulsing and emptying his bollocks so fully he ended up in a pile on the cold floor. 

Jesus. Jesus Christ. Holy actual fuck. Oh, Sherlock. God how he wished he could hold the man, tell him how good he was, how clever. Instead he held his knees and buried his face in them until the water grew too cold for him to stand. 

He'd make himself some tea. He'd make the tea and read the letter again, just once more.


	8. Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a visit from Mycroft at his new flat and John contelplates what to write.

Sherlock sat on his fire escape smoking. He was desperate to know how his letter went over. He'd said some things he knew he shouldn't have, asking for the picture being paramount. It had been a stupid move that had shown his hand, shown how desperate he was to get to know a bit more of John. His only saving grace was that John didn't know how much information he had on the man already, didn't know about the file.

"I thought you'd quit," Mycroft said from Sherlock's side, slipping the cigarette from his hand and taking a long drag himself.

"Why did you give me the file?" Sherlock asked, not deigning to answer.

"I knew you were interested in John," Mycroft replied somewhat honestly.

"Let me rephrase that," Sherlock said with a scowl. "Why did you give me the file when you did? Why did you tell me over and over again that it didn't exist to then simply hand it over right before I was meant to send him a letter?"

"You're giving me too much credit, brother dear. I simply broke under the weight of your insistence, nothing more," Mycroft replied with another drag of the cigarette.

"You never break unless it's your intent to do so," Sherlock shot back. "What aren't you telling me?"

Mycroft took a step back and cleared his throat, never truly being able to hide anything from his younger sibling.

"You KNEW him!" Sherlock shouted. "How? Tell me how you knew John!"

"Knew is an overstatement, I'm afraid. I met him once, in Afghanistan. He patched me up," Mycroft admitted.

"And then what? What happened between you?" Sherlock demanded, standing then and looming with every ounce of his being.

"Nothing HAPPENED, Sherlock!" Mycroft said with a weak sigh, "I didn't even really know the man."

"But he made an impression," Sherlock added, stepping past his brother and into the flat, cigarette butt long forgotten by both men on the ledge.

"Well, yes, he's rather good at that, isn't he?" Mycroft replied as he followed Sherlock into the sitting room and stood next to him as the younger man spread out across the sofa like an overgrown housecat.

"What are you implying?" Sherlock growled, pushing the analogy to a whole other level.

"That you're taken with him," Mycroft said, brow arched in defiance.

"As you were?" Sherlock challenged.

"No," Mycroft replied seriously, "not as I was. I saw in him what he could be...and that was something I couldn't give him. You on the other hand."

"What you couldn't...are you talking about sex?" Sherlock spit, face contorted in disbelief.

"No, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed.

"Oh...sentiment," Sherlock replied. "So you..."

"Saved him for you, yes," Mycroft said. "I don't expect a thank you, but I-"

"Thank you," Sherlock interrupted with a murmur.

_____

John sat crosslegged on his cot contemplating what to write. He hated this, the communication being so jolted and disconnected due to time. He just wanted to call Sherlock and ask him if he would really be interested in living with him. It was stupid, really, the feeling that he might not be wanted. It wasn't something he had expected at all, he'd thought he was going to be the one that didn't want this. It was unreasonable of his heart to be warring like this over someone he barely knew.

He realised quite suddenly that he hadn't had any clue what he would do after the army. Before this whole...marriage thing...he had it in his head he'd work at some hospital and find someone to spend the rest of his life with. He had thought he'd have all this time. 

Now he wasn't completely sure what he was supposed to do. 

He stood and walked to his duffel and drew out two photos, one from a month prior and one from boot camp. He looked them over and then slipped them into the envelope along with a third, him and his sister a few years before at her wedding, then sat back on the cot.


	9. Don't Know How To Ask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's letter

Sherlock,

Thank you for the pictures. I've sent you a few along, two from the army and one from my sister's wedding. 

The package was very nice of you, the file on foliage reminded me of home. I miss it. 

The tea was a bloody relief, I have to say, as the shite we've been getting here should be outlawed. The chai is good, though, I will give them that.

I quite like the violin.

Can't write too much now, just wanted you to know that I've got leave in a week. I wasn't going to come home, nothing really to come home to as my mum is in Ireland with family for a bit. I'm not exactly sure how to ask this, but would you like to meet up? I've really no place to stay but my mate Bill says I can crash on his sofa and that's in London. I'll leave you with the thought.

John


	10. For Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a phone call.

John was in the mess hall when he got the second call from Sherlock. He walked to the office slowly this time, not worried like before, and held the receiver to his chest for a beat before holding it up to his ear.

"Hello?" he asked weakly.

"John," Sherlock replied.

"Hi, Sherlock," John said after a pause, smile creeping across his lips.

"You should come. To London, that is," Sherlock said quickly.

"Oh, well, okay, I'll let Bill-" John began.

"Don't," Sherlock interrupted. "There's a second bedroom at my flat. Mrs Hudson has made it up for you and I'm afraid she won't take no for an answer."

"Mrs Hudson?" John asked.

"Mmm. The landlady. She's childless. Sort of taken me under her wing," Sherlock said.

"Oh, okay," John replied, heart beating out of control.

"So you'll come?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John replied, and with a clearing of his throat, "yes, I'll come."

"It's in three day's time," Sherlock added nervously.

John chuckled and leaned back in the chair, "yes, I know."

"I think we could be friends," Sherlock said shortly. "It's not really my expertise, but I think it would be good...to be friends with you."

John closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall, breathing deeply.

"If you'd like," Sherlock added tentatively.

"I would," John said with a grin. "Very much, I think."

"Watson!" the major called from down the hall.

"I have to go," John said.

"You have to go," Sherlock said at the same time.

John laughed and stretched, fingers rubbing over the gold ring on the chain under his vest, "we've got to stop that, people will think we're an old married couple."

"John," Sherlock replied softly.

"Yeah?" John asked.

"Be safe in your travels," Sherlock said, meaning 'come safe to me'.

"I will," John assured him. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, John, for now," Sherlock murmured before ringing off.


	11. Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys prepare to see each other for the first time.

Mrs Hudson set the tea mug she was holding down and lay a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Her husband would get this look at times, unhappy over things far, far away. She worried about the boy sometimes, he was so conflicted.

"Mrs Hudson," he said, unmoving.

"What are you doing up here?" she asked softly as she picked up the mug and pressed it into his hands.

"It is part of my flat, is it not?" Sherlock asked flatly, hands moving upwards and sipping the tea without seeing.

"Well, yes, but why have you gone and done it up? Are you expecting company?" the woman asked, finally settling onto the freshly made bed next to him.

"Yes...a friend, of sorts," Sherlock replied.

"Oh," she said utterly surprised by the answer. "Well, that's good, dear. When will he be here? Should I stock the pantry?"

Sherlock looked up suddenly and seemed to dust off the vestiges of whatever trance he'd been in, eyes once again hawklike in their focus. She shifted uncomfortably.

"Why did you assume it would be a man?" he asked.

"Well, you'd marry a man, wouldn't you? Don't think you're interested in women," she said nervously, and before he could ask, "the ring, dear." 

Sherlock looked down to find that he was indeed wearing his wedding ring. He brushed his thumb across the warm gold band and closed his eyes momentarily.

"His name is John," he said after a long beat.

"That's nice, dear," Mrs Hudson chirped.

Sherlock swallowed hard and set the mug on the bedside table.

"I think I'll rest my eyes for a bit, Mrs H," he said as he lay back on the bed, hands clasped over his chest.

"Alright, Sherlock," she said, standing and collecting the mug and making her way out of the room.

When she paused on the top step Sherlock sighed deeply and she didn't say what she'd wanted to; that everything was fine, that no one had a perfect marriage, that Sherlock was worthy of love. 

_____

Murray ran into John's bunk, duffel over his shoulder and huge smile on his face.

"Johnny!" he said loudly.

"Murr," John replied.

"You're gonna miss the flight," Murray teased.

"I'm coming," John said, looking again at the picture of Sherlock, the one with the strange false smile, before sticking it in his pocket and following Murray out.

They sat next to each other on the flight back and chatted about where they couldn't wait to eat, what they couldn't wait to see. Eventually Murray fell silent beside him and John looked over to find him watching John's hands questioningly. He was playing with his wedding ring, slipping it on and off of the first knuckle of his index finger.

"Will you see him?" Murray asked softly.

"Mmm," John replied, "got note he's sending a driver for me."

"A driver?" Murray asked with a small smile.

"Yeah," John replied, elbow finding its way to Murray's ribs, "I'm rich. Didn't I tell you?"

Murray winced at the gentle blow and rolled his eyes, "and the Queen's my mum."

John laughed and slipped the ring back into his pocket. If his hand ended up staying in his pocket and the ring happened to find its way onto his finger again, well, no one could tell, could they?


	12. Pick Your Favourite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes it to London.

John walked off the plane into London's Heathrow airport and stood by the slowly turning conveyor belt waiting somewhat patiently for his duffle and trying desperately not to obsess over whether or not the driver would actually arrive for him. He hadn't seen anyone waiting when he came off the plane but he wasn't sure what he was looking for. He was a bit worried that it would be a man dressed in black with one of those posh hats holding a sign with his name on it, the idea of the unwanted extravagance making his stomach turn.

His duffle worked its way towards him and he slung it over his shoulder, then turned and walked out into the cold air of a London autumn. He looked up and down and found a man with salt and pepper hair in a grey suit looking at a picture and scratching his forearm. When he glanced up and saw John a smile passed over his lips and he walked forward, hand outstretched.

"You must be John," the man said as he drew near.

"Yeah," John replied shaking the man's hand nervously.

"I'm Greg. Friend of Sherlock's," the man said.

"Oh, well, it's good to meet you," John replied, growing visibly relaxed.

"Likewise, come on," Greg said, leading the way to a slick black sedan.

"We're, um, taking this?" John asked, seeing the red lamp on the dash.

"Yeah, company car," Greg said, slipping into the driver's.

John put his duffel in the back seat and got into the front. "you're police, then."

"Yeah, work with Sherlock," Greg said as they pulled away from the kerb. "That's how he wrangled me into picking you up."

"Oh, sorry if it was a bother," John replied, fiddling with the ring in his pocket.

"Naw, plus, he promised he'd take the next case whether it was exciting or not. So, how did you two meet? He doesn't do social," Greg said, chuckling.

"Oh, well...my mum knows his mum," John said, avoiding stating the fact that he hadn't met Sherlock at all.

"Childhood mates then?" Greg asked, trying for casual banter and feeling the tension in the car amp up.

"Not really," John said, looking out the window and waiting for the conversation to peter out.

Greg looked over at him and chewed his lip, "so, you're a doctor, then?"

John perked up at that and then tried to hide it, "yes. The army is paying for medical school."

"No wonder he likes you so much, he needs a medic around, running off into danger like he always does. How long have you two been friends?"

John sank back into his seat, not sure how to take the news that Sherlock had told people they were friends and nothing more. His hand left his pocket and he felt rather foolish for the way it had continued to play with the ring until that exact moment. A ring that he was sure now meant nothing. What had he wanted it to mean, anyhow? It wasn't as if they really had a connection, not as if they were in love. The marriage was simply convenience, he told himself.

"We're here," Greg said, not mentioning that John hadn't answered his question.

"Oh," John said, head snapping up.

"I've got to take off," Greg said, deciding he wouldn't in fact come in. "Tell Sherlock I have his case when he's ready for it."

John cleared his throat and held out his hand, "will do."

Greg shook it and nodded up at the building, "all the way up the stairs. He usually leaves the door open."

John got his duffel and watched as Greg drove away then turned and walked up to the building. It was rather less posh than he'd been expecting and it made him breathe a little easier. He never knew what to do in really posh places, well, he couldn't even say he knew that for sure having never been in one. He opened the front door and heard violin music coming from above. Smiling a bit, he took the stairs and then knocked at the door at the top of them.

"I'm busy Mrs Hudson," a deep voice said, song pausing momentarily. "Go away."

John opened the door and stepped through it to find an incredible lithe figure in front of the window. His hair was unreal, even more so than in the photos, and the way his body moved, seeming to be part of the song, was distracting. John dropped his duffel at his side and crossed his arms.

"Oh, for god's sake!" the man growled, dropping bow and violin to his side and spinning around. "I told you-"

John tried not to smile at the way the man's eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open. He failed and felt himself fall into a lopsided grin when the man visibly shook himself and stood a bit straighter.

"John," he said.

"Sherlock," John replied, breathing deeply and leaning back against the door.

"I wasn't expecting you for a while now," Sherlock explained.

John chuckled at that and chewed his lip before speaking, "my flight came in on time and your friend Greg picked me up."

"My FRIEND GREG?" Sherlock said, spitting the words as if it were the most preposterous thing he'd ever heard.

John chuckled again and started to take off his coat and shoes, "yes. Police fellow."

"Oh. Oh, Lestrade. He told you his name was Greg? That's peculiar," Sherlock replied.

John fell into parade's rest and swallowed audibly when Sherlock's eyes drew over him. The look was one his mother would have swatted his bum for when he was a child; too pulling, too intense. He suddenly wondered if Sherlock's mum had ever taught him not to stare. He felt a twinge of something when Sherlock's eyes seemed to stick near his chest and then neck. When the man finally turned around it was as though the view had become too much.

"Would you like a cuppa?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, ta," John said, walking to one of the large arm chairs and slumping into it.

Sherlock looked him over once more, quicker this time, and set about getting some water to boil. John picked up the day's newspaper and started to go through it, really just needing something to do with his hands, and Sherlock brought over a tray with several kinds of biscuits, sugar and milk. John picked up one of the biscuits and nibbled on the edge.

"Oh, these are good," he said, licking crumbs from his lips. "Very good indeed."

"Mmm. Mrs Hudson made them. New recipe from her secret boyfriend, the baker."

John raised his eyebrows at that and sat back in the chair, "secret boyfriend?.

"Yes. He's married. Twice. Horrible husband, but wonderful pâtissier," Sherlock confirmed, going to get the kettle.

John smiled a bit at the strange way Sherlock seemed to see things and let himself finish the biscuit while Sherlock poured them tea. When the tall man held the milk up and looked him in the eyes he nodded and watched as he was given the perfect amount. He did have some manners, it seemed. Sherlock passed him the cup and sat across from him.

"I don't know what to say," Sherlock admitted after a long pause. "What do people say to their loved ones?"

John's throat tightened up at that and he shrugged, "how was your trip? How was your day? Are you sleeping well? That sort of thing, I suppose."

Sherlock nodded and looked down into his tea for a second, contemplating, then glanced back up, cheeks rosy in embarrassment, "how was your trip? How was your day? Are you sleeping well?" he murmured.

John laughed and pushed at him with one sock-clad foot, "not all at once."

Sherlock nodded, trying to convey that he, of course, understood, and blundered on, "right, yes. Then pick your favourite."

"My favourite question?" John asked, eyebrows knit at the impossibility of the man across from him.

Sherlock looked panicked for a moment and cleared his throat twice so John took pity on him and decided to lead the conversation.

"Didn't sleep well, to be honest. I was a little nervous to meet you."

Sherlock nodded and took a sip of his tea. The second he'd swallowed his mind seemed to catch up and he sputtered a bit.

"You...were nervous to meet me?" he asked.

"Well, yes," John admitted.

Sherlock looked like he was about to say something when the man from earlier, Greg, or Lestrade, came through the door.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, face grave, "but I need your help."

Sherlock blinked several times, eyes not wanting to leave John's.

"Sometime today," the man pressed.

"Fine," Sherlock said with a sigh, "but John's coming with us."

John looked confused for a second before standing and slipping on his jacket and shoes and following the two men down the stairs. He caught part of their conversation as he closed the upstairs door and laughed at Greg, Greg Lestrade, in fact, explaining that he told John that was his name because it was.


	13. I Wear Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go to their first crime scene.

They were barely on the scene for more than a minute before John saw something he didn't expect. He had Sherlock beneath him, body curled in a tight ball, and his own hands over his head seconds before it went. The explosion caused a loud whump and dust and debris pushed outwards, filling the air with a choking, acrid scent. Once everything had settled, more than thirteen seconds after the explosion, John slowly stood and helped Sherlock to do the same. 

"What the-" Lestrade began, standing and cradling the side of his head with one hand.

"IED," John replied, kicking aside parts of what used to be a tenement and helping a woman to her feet. "The tyre by the front of the house with the old Nokia taped inside . Common practice in Afghanistan."

Lestrade was radioing in to make sure no one was in the building when it blew as the black woman John had helped up was pulling at her pant leg. John helped her sit to the side and rummaged through Lestrade's car boot to get a med kit. As he knelt to clean the small wound on her leg Sherlock strode past him and started rattling off deductions to no one in particular.

"Don't go far," John shouted after him.

Sherlock fell silent and turned before nodding once and starting back on his way into the smoking building.

"This is going to need stitches," John told the woman. "The ambulance should be here soon."

She stared at him, eyes wide, and John mistook the surprise for aftermath of the bomb.

"It's over now. Bomb squad'll be on their way and they'll make sure there's no more danger. Can you tell me your name?" he said in his perfect bedside manner.

"That's Sally Donovan. She's Lestrade's lackey," Sherlock said, once again at John's side as John wrapped her leg in gauze.

"I need her to answer, Sherlock," John said softly. 

"Who are you?" she asked John, still confused by his easy way with the genius.

"Do you go by doctor or captain?" Sherlock asked absently, and then to Sally, "Dr John Watson."

She cocked her head defensively as John pulled the leg of her trousers down over the gauze, "and how do you know the freak?"

John looked up to see Sherlock blanch and stood to take his hand.

"I'm his husband," he said firmly. "And I'd appreciate you not calling him that."

Sally gawped for a moment until Greg made himself known by clearing his throat awkwardly. Everyone turned to him and he let an strange smile pass across his face before looking to Sherlock.

"Your husband," he said slowly.

"Yes," Sherlock replied with forced confidence.

"Alright, then," Greg returned, disbelief still colouring his features.

The ambulance pulled up and John hesitantly let go of Sherlock's hand as he explained what had happened and ushered the medics to a still rather shaken Sally Donovan. Lestrade took Sherlock aside at that and spoke softly.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me he was your husband?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

"It was incidental, and it's besides the point. You're looking for a middle aged man. He placed the body in the tenement to draw us here and if it weren't for John he would have at least killed me. He possibly owns the place, although he could have been hired to do the job. Caucasian. Middle income. Family to support. Should be enough to be getting on with." Sherlock said quickly before nodding and leaving Lestrade scribbling in his notepad.

He caught John's eye and the two men walked in silence to the kerb where Sherlock got them a cab. He held the door for John and slid in next to them.

"Baker Street, 221," he said to the driver, and then to John, "You didn't have to do that."

"You were walking right up to it!" John spit back, not understanding at all.

"No, the...the other thing. With Sally," Sherlock corrected.

"Oh. Well, yes, I did. She was being a horrid bitch," John said with a sniff, chin held high.

"She's always like that. It's honestly my fault," Sherlock said, not meaning to. "I provoke her."

The cab pulled up to 221 before John could reply and Sherlock jumped from the cab without paying. John handed over some notes and walked after him.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked as John pulled his jacket off and leaned against the wall.

"Ah, no. The flight was, well, I'm kind of exhausted," he admitted with a sad smile.

"I haven't fed you yet," Sherlock said, setting down the kettle and walking to where John was. "Mrs Hudson said I should feed you."

John laughed and slipped off his shoes, "you can feed me when I get up. Just a few hours, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded and then walked to the bottom of the second staircase.

"Your room is at the top. I'll be here...if you need anything," he said, running a hand through his hair and looking as it came away caked with dust.

"Shit. I need a shower," John said with a sigh. "We both need a shower."

Sherlock's eyes blew wide and he took a step back.

"Not together," John said with a small laugh. "I'll go first."

"Oh, of course," Sherlock replied, going to take off his greatcoat.

John walked to the loo once Sherlock had pointed the way and stripped carefully, folding his dust covered clothes in a neat pile and slipping under the hot spray. The water was gray as it pooled at his feet and he realised he'd have to use Sherlock's shampoo. The stuff smelled expensive so he tried to use as little as possible and ended up having to wash it twice. When he was finally clean he got out, more exhausted than before, and slung a towel low on his waist.

When he walked out of the loo in a puff of steam Sherlock turned and looked once again at his chest. When his eyes didn't budge John looked down and saw his wedding ring resting against his id tags.

"You wear it?" Sherlock asked, voice pinched.

"Well, yeah. Thought I should. Can't wear it on my finger or it might have to get cut off," John admitted, hand going up to play with it.

"I wear mine," Sherlock said quickly. "I'm not wearing it now because I thought you might...well, I'm not wearing it now."

"Okay," John said with a small shrug. "I'm going to, um, head to bed now."

Sherlock nodded and watched as John walked to the front door, muscled back flexing as he grabbed his duffle, and then went upstairs. He meant to go shower after John had left the room but he found himself climbing the stairs once John had settled and standing in the doorway. It must have been minutes later, he realised, as John was already under the covers and breathing deeply. He watched the rise and fall of his chest carefully and then went to stand by the bed, inching closer slowly as to not wake him.

John sighed in his sleep and his id tags and wedding ring shifted on his chest. Somewhat unsettled by the fact that they slipped to his underarm Sherlock moved forward and placed them once again over John's heart before leaving the room.


	14. Bought And Paid For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds the file on him.

John slept for five hours before rousing, the bed being the most comfortable thing he'd had the pleasure of laying on in months. He reached one hand onto his stomach, scratching absently, while he other moved up to take his tags and wedding ring in hand. He slipped the tip of his finger into the ring and breathed deeply. Christ, he was falling hard, the thought made him smile a bit.

He finally rose and slipped into a t-shirt and denims, pulling the zip and buttoning them over his dark blue pants. He looked at himself in the mirror and tried to fix the way his hair flattened on one side but to no avail. He gave up and walked downstairs to find Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, hair clean and wearing a pair of worn pajama trousers and an inside out t-shirt, looking through a microscope and surrounded by scientific detritus.

Sherlock looked up from the microscope and swallowed audibly, eyes drifting to John's feet, "you're barefoot."

John looked down and wiggled his toes, "yeah. Do you have something against feet?"

"No," Sherlock said quickly, pulling on his blue silk robe and playing with the sleeves. "I've just never seen you barefoot before."

"I was barefoot when I got out of the shower," John said, smiling at the way Sherlock began fiddling with his pen.

"Oh," Sherlock mumbled. "I suppose you were."

"Too busy looking at other things?" John teased.

Sherlock sat up and tried to look disinterested, "your upper body is somewhat distracting."

John broke into a grin and went to put the kettle on. Sherlock got back to whatever he was looking at and tried to ignore the way talking about John's upper body made him feel. Seeing his feet had seemed almost more intimate and he suddenly hoped John wouldn't wear shoes the whole day. Perhaps he had some sort of obsession. He palmed himself slowly and tried to become more aroused at the thought of John's feet. Nothing. 

"You okay?" John asked, sitting across from him.

"Mmm," Sherlock said, looking through the microscope again and adjusting the knobs.

"Do you mind if I have an apple?" John asked, pushing some of the papers aside and leaning against the table.

"What's mine is yours, John. Obviously," Sherlock replied without looking up.

"Obviously," John quipped, reaching under a black file to the fruit bowl.

Some papers fell out and then a picture. John's eyebrows knit as he picked it up. It was him. It was him as a child. He grabbed one of the papers and saw it was a report card from fourth year. Sherlock snatched it from his hand and then the picture as well and stuffed them back into the file.

"What the hell?" John asked.

"It's nothing," Sherlock replied, tucking the file under his arm and walking to his bedroom.

"Bullshit!" John shouted, standing and stalking after him. "You've got a bloody file on me?"

Sherlock stopped at his bed and heard John follow in after him. His heart was racing. He didn't want John to know how hopelessly he'd become attached to him. It wouldn't do him any good to know. Why did he want to know?

"Sherlock?" John asked, going to Sherlock's dresser and pulling another picture of him, this one from his first year in the army, one he'd sent, from the mirror and clutching it in his hand.

"It was simply to gather information," Sherlock said defensively as he played with the edge of the duvet.

"Information? I'm not a damn case, Sherlock. I'm a person. You can't just go rummaging through someone's life!" John said, hand falling to his side.

"Don't," Sherlock said desperately, seeing the photo in his hand. 

"Don't what?" John asked, right hand clenching and unclenching.

"Take the picture. Please," Sherlock answered, looking at the photo.

"I'll trade you," John said, head held high. "The picture for my file."

"I'm not done with it," Sherlock said, file held behind his back.

"Well, I don't really give a shit. You shouldn't have it in the first place."

Sherlock swallowed hard and slowly handed the file over, open hand shaking until John placed the photo in it.

"I'm going for a walk," John said, taking the file and turning on his heel.

Sherlock stuck the photo in his breast pocket and followed John into the sitting room.

"Are you coming back?" he asked, voice pinched.

"Yeah, I'm coming back," John said with a sigh, slipping into his jacket and shoes. "I just need some air."

Sherlock nodded and watched John leave.

_____

He should have put on socks. The skin on the top of his feet was rubbing uncomfortably on the insides of his shoes and his toes were already cold. He put the collar of his jacket up and walked faster, head ducked. He had no idea where he was going, only that he needed to get as far away from Sherlock as possible for the time being. He'd made it five blocks when his mobile beeped in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out and found a text.

WE'RE OUT OF MILK. SH

He chewed his lip and replied quickly.

AND WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO ABOUT THAT?

The reply was nearly instantaneous.

BUY MILK. I NEED IT FOR MY TEA. AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE. IT'S GETTING COLD. SH

John stuffed the mobile back in his pocket and told himself he wouldn't. He wouldn't buy milk for that idiot. He wouldn't.

Twenty minutes later, milk in hand, he made his way up the steps to 221B and slipped in the door.

"My tea's gone cold," Sherlock said from the sofa.

"So make more," John shot back, taking off his shoes and noting the red spots where blisters would soon form. "I got your bloody milk."

"Oh. Yes," Sherlock said, rolling over and rubbing his eyes. "I don't really take milk in my tea."

John's jaw clenched and he took off his jacket with stiff motions, "so then why the hell did you tell me to get it?"

"Because I wanted you to come home," Sherlock said, looking at John like he was being obtuse. "You're still mad."

"Yes," John admitted, standing awkwardly by the front door.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, standing as well and walking towards John.

"Because you picked me out like bloody livestock! How many did you have to pick from? Five? Ten?" John demanded.

"Don't be an idiot," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes. "There was only you. Why wouldn't I be done with the file if I'd had it since before our families made the deal?"

"Deal. Jesus. That's what it was, wasn't it? I was purchased," John said, going to sit in an armchair and cradling his head.

"Yes, John, you were bought!" Sherlock suddenly hissed. "You were bought and the price was my freedom, so stop acting like this was all my idea!"

John looked up, shock evident on his face, and saw that there were tears threatening to spill from Sherlock's eyes. He stood and strode towards him, eyes fierce and back straight. When he got close Sherlock flinched a bit before John slumped against the wall beside him and jammed his hands into his pockets. Sherlock held his breath for much longer than he probably should have, finally drawing in a heaving lungful and melting against the wall.

"Anything you want to know about me you can ask. Just ask," John whispered.

"Have you ever owned a dog?" Sherlock whispered in return.

John laughed and looked over at him, taking in his almost innocent face. He shook his head.

"No. You?"

"Yes. When I was younger. His name was Redbeard," Sherlock began, "and he was my best friend."


	15. Yes, We

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John talk a bit about their past before they both drop the subject. Then there a case. A case and a case afterglow. Our boys are so far gone.

"We didn't really have friends, Mycroft and I," Sherlock explained. "The other children were idiots. I thought it would get better when I grew up but it just seemed to get worse. Even the idiotic kids were better than idiotic adults with their socialized bigotry and self-hate."

"That's...that's horrible," John replied suddenly wishing he was sitting down for the conversation he knew they were about to have.

"Not anymore horrible than yours. At least my parents loved me," Sherlock said, not having any idea how it sounded.

"My parents loved me!" John shot back.

"Then why were you treated the way you were?" Sherlock asked, and the only thing keeping John from hitting him soundly in the face was the fact that he looked to be actually confused and not mocking.

"Some people don't know how to show it. My dad was drunk most of the time and my sister and I weren't easy children to have. Mum did the best she could," John said honestly, hoping against hope it would be all he needed to say.

"I don't know how to show it but I wouldn't ever assault you," Sherlock replied, looking over at John and chewing his lip.

"I don't want to talk about it," John said.

"But you told me-" Sherlock began.

"Christ, start with something a bit easier," John said weakly.

"Who was Mr Peters?" Sherlock asked.

"He was in the file?" John asked, mouth falling open.

It had been several years since he last thought of his teacher, the only person that could get through to him at the time and the man he truly owed his happier young adulthood to.

"The file was compiled by my brother. He's very good at what he does," Sherlock answered, moving to the kitchen and filling the kettle.

"And what is that?" John asked, waiting a second before following Sherlock in and leaning against the counter.

"He's the British government, well on his way to being the British government. Working his way up the ranks and doing quite a bit of spying, hence the enormity of your file."

John looked down at his feet and rolled his shoulders.

"Did you ask him to make up the file on me?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock replied. "I knew he would do so. I just asked for it. Are you still angry?"

"Not really," John admitted. "This whole situation is just bizarre."

"Not for our family. I think that's why Mycroft didn't understand my anger when he told me."

"You were angry?" John asked.

Sherlock turned and looked John over for a second, "yes. Weren't you?"

"A bit," John admitted. "Yes."

"I'm difficult," Sherlock said, head bowed. 

John's eyebrows knit. "Sorry, what?"

"I'm difficult and moody and inconsiderate. You'll get fed up and leave. I understand, it's understandable," Sherlock spit, not able to stop talking once he'd started. "I'm obnoxious and demanding and I spend a lot of time in my own head."

"And you think I haven't picked up on that? Don't you remember the first letter you sent? Trying to put me off," John said with a soft smile.

Sherlock shrugged, "you took it well that time, I suppose."

"So don't tell me what I can't handle, yeah?" John said.

Sherlock nodded and went to the fridge.

"You'll be hungry," he said.

"Mmm," John replied, getting the tea ready as the water came to a boil. "What have you got in?"

"Mrs Hudson bought enough food to feed ten people. There are several types of meat and some very good pickles."

"You don't do the shopping, do you?" John asked with a sigh, pouring the hot water into two cups and adding tea bags.

"Boring," Sherlock said, pulling thinly sliced ham from the bottom tray, cheese and two different mustards. "There's bread in the bread box. I assume you know how to assemble a sandwich."

"I think I'll make do," John said with a roll of his eyes.

"Mmm. Well, Lestrade sent me home with a cold case he's desperate for help on so I'm going to get to that. He's useless," Sherlock added before taking the proffered tea as well as the sugar and going to sit on the sofa.

"Yes, because you're the only smart one," John teased.

"I am," Sherlock replied, not catching that it was meant to be facetious.

"Git," John mumbled fondly.

_____

John wasn't sure how Sherlock managed to spend all day on the sofa but after he'd got back from lunch with Murray and heading to the store for some shampoo and a razor he walked in to find Sherlock in exactly the position he was in when he'd left, face down on the sofa with his right arm hanging off the edge, knuckles brushing the floor.

"You awake?" he asked as he came into the sitting room and sat in what he thought of now as his chair.

Sherlock grunted absently and John smiled as he picked up his battered copy of some shitty detective novel. He'd almost made it to the last chapter when Sherlock stood suddenly, eyes wide, and walked over to shake his shoulders. John had just been thinking about how impossible it seemed that the two men had fallen into a perfect seeming domestic harmony in such a small amount of time.

"John! Of course! You couldn't be more right!" Sherlock exclaimed, grin making his eyes shine.

John laughed, "I didn't say anything," he insisted.

"Oh," Sherlock said, looking a bit lost. "Never mind, your presence has been quite helpful. We need to go into the Met."

"We?" John asked, eyebrow quirked.

"Yes, we," Sherlock replied. "Unless you protest to assisting me."

John took a deep breath and stood, "explain it to me on the way."

Sherlock grinned and grabbed his greatcoat.

_____

The cold case ended up heating quite quickly once they'd gone through some info at the Met and Sherlock took off just as Lestrade was saying that they shouldn't go without backup. John stood for a second looking between the two men before Greg sighed and signaled he could leave. He caught up quickly and slid into the cab next to Sherlock just before they sped away.

"This is crazy," he said.

"This is the work," Sherlock replied, eyes fixed on the passing landscape.

John settled back into his seat and hoped desperately that he wouldn't encounter another bomb.

_____

By the time they made it back to the flat they were both laughing and buzzing with adrenaline. The chase had been what clenched it for John, he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life running after this idiot.

"We could have been killed," he said, leaning against the wall in the entryway.

"Oh, come now, John, you spend your days in a war zone," Sherlock replied, breath coming in short puffs. "You hardly have room to speak."

John chuckled and sighed, looking over at the man and feeling suddenly that they were the only two people in the world. Sherlock glanced back, smile going from fevered to something more secret. He swallowed hard and pushed himself off the wall.

"You're knackered," he said, eyes holding such intense sentiment that John felt warm all over. "You'd better get to bed."

John blinked a few times, throat working, and then nodded and took the stairs two at a time. Sherlock followed close behind, cursing himself for cutting whatever they had short. He watched John gather his things and go to get ready for bed then walked over and collapsed into his chair.

He gave it fifteen minutes before sneaking up the stairs and hovering outside John's bedroom door, supposing he'd go to sleep as quickly as he had the night before. What he heard made heat spike in his abdomen.

John was masturbating. He was laying in bed and masturbating. 

Sherlock had heard others masturbate before, he was a public school boy after all, but it had never affected him as much as he was affected just then.

John's breathing quickened and Sherlock leaned his head against the wall, telling himself he should leave, that it was more than a bit not good, but somehow being unable to move. As he rested there John made a small 'oh' sound and the strokes undoubtedly sped up, the sound of skin on skin translating directly into shocks of pleasure for Sherlock.

The taller man reached his hand down to palm himself, really only trying to ease some pressure, and choked on a moan. John didn't notice, too far gone and too close to climax. It was perhaps fifteen more desperate strokes before he grunted out a soft 'Sherlock' and obviously came.

Sherlock couldn't help the squeeze of his hand and the further spilling of his own cock. It had been years since he last came in his pants and his neck heated with an impending flush. He steadied himself and retreated to his room, leaving John to attempt to slow his breathing as the afterglow drew him closer to sleep.


	16. What Now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock acts like a brat with surprising results. John lets him know he's not perturbed.

John woke with a start the next morning around seven. His first thought when looking at the clock was that he couldn't believe he'd woken so late, the army having drilled an earlier wake up time into him. His second thought had to do with the shout and then loud crack and shatter of something downstairs. He was out of the bed and running down to see what was happening without even having put trousers on. What he saw left him leaning against the wall, chest heaving, with a look of confusion on his face.

"What the...what the hell is going on?" he asked as he looked from the broken cup to Sherlock, laying prone on the sofa, and then back again.

"Bored!" Sherlock shouted, throwing the spoon to clang against the wall that was still dripping with the dregs of his tea.

What happened next would have long lasting effects, and not the type John had intended. Back straight and eyes fierce, John shouted at Sherlock in his best captain voice, which happened to be not only very good but also wholly authentic.

"Sherlock Holmes, you will get off that sofa and clean up the mess you've made or, so help me, god, I will drag you by your ear and rub your bloody nose in it!" John bellowed.

Sherlock sat blinking for a second and then scrambled to do just that. John actually had to stop him before he cut himself, tossing a rag in his direction after making the exact sound that most people make when trying to get their dogs attention; a loud whistle. Sherlock, who was surprised and a bit embarrassed by his immediate response, not only did what John said but waited for further direction once he was done, hands on the kitchen table and eyes desperate.

"What now?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" John asked in return, chest still puffed and more than a bit impressed at Sherlock's time, that boy could hustle.

"What would you like me to do next?" Sherlock said, breaths coming in quick succession.

John stood confused for a second before Sherlock spoke again.

"Come, John, just when things were getting interesting," he panted, face eerily blank.

"Oh, well, clean off the table, I suppose," John said, and as soon as Sherlock started, "you did well with the cup. I'll put something down to soak up the tea and we'll see if Mrs H has some carpet cleaner."

"Yes, John," Sherlock murmured under his breath, already starting to move things from the table into their respective places in the cupboards.

John scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck and tried to silently make his way to the loo for a shower. As he walked behind Sherlock the taller man spun around, Petri dish in hand, and walked right into him. His eyes went wide as John felt the bulge in his trousers press against his hip for a second before they moved apart. Sherlock's face flushed and he whispered a choked 'sorry' before shuffling around him and getting to the sink.

"I'm going to, um, take a shower," John sputtered, not sure what to make of the situation.

Sherlock nodded, words seeming to have abandoned him and John left him leaning over the sink, both hands gripping the edge.

When John made it into the loo he turned the water on quickly and slipped his pants off before jumping in without waiting for it to get hot. The water came down lukewarm across his chest less than comfortably in the cold room and he rested one hand against the wall while the other went down to squeeze his burgeoning erection.

Sherlock had been aroused, it was obvious. He'd asked John to order him about and in doing so had become aroused. John simply couldn't get his head around it. He found himself cupping his prick as the water got to a better temperature and thought that he might as well have a wank while he was there, no harm in it, after all.

He pulled at his cock slowly and repositioned himself so he could lean his right shoulder against the cold tiles. It wasn't difficult to imagine Sherlock, eyes wide and desperate for his cock. A burst of arousal ran through him as he realised that it was exactly what he saw when Sherlock had said things were just getting interesting. 

He visualized Sherlock on his knees, hair damp with sweat and eyes dark. He would take his hair in hand and tug lightly until he fell forward. Even in his fantasy he looked for signs of consent and as Sherlock moaned and and rubbed his face where groin met hip he gave in to it and started to stroke faster.

He bit his lip and reached between his legs with his non-dominant hand to pull at his bollocks and dig his nails in behind them, the bit of pain making his breath speed up and his hips start to move of their own will. 

Christ, he wanted the genius on his knees, wanted him bent over the kitchen table, wanted him spread out on his bed, lost in arousal and covered in a sheen of sweat. He tried to imagine Sherlock's body laid out for him in the dim light of the lamps out the window, his legs spread and flushed cock hot and heavy on his stomach. It was enough to make him bite harder into his lip and begin to come, cock spurting all over the shower tiles as it spasmed in his fist.

_____

Sherlock finished cleaning the table and stood wringing his hands in the kitchen for a moment before hearing the water turn off in the bathroom and leaning back against the counter. When John emerged from the loo a few seconds later he found Sherlock, eyes wide and sweat on his upper lip and at his hairline. Sherlock swallowed hard and averted his gaze.

John walked up to him after looking the table over and rested a hand on his shoulder. It took a second for Sherlock to look up, horrified by having to hide his erection with his hands. The look of pain and humiliation shook John to his core and he did something he didn't think he would. He ran his thumb across Sherlock's cheek gently and then carded his fingers through the damp curls at the base of the genius's neck. Sherlock sighed and his eyes fluttered closed.

"You did so well," John murmured softly. "I'm very proud of you."

Sherlock swallowed again and nodded.

"Open your eyes. Look at me," John implored.

Sherlock did so hesitantly and found only fondness there, not a bit of mocking.

"Why don't you go take care of that?" John said, smiling gently and nodding towards Sherlock's crotch.

Sherlock took in a quick breath and his cheeks colored slightly.

"Hmm?" John asked, pulling at the bit of hair he had in his hands and trying to catch Sherlock's eye.

Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded with a barely audible, "yes, John."

John squeezed the back of his neck once before walking away to his room.

Once the door to the upstairs bedroom was closed Sherlock was running into his bedroom and collapsing against the wall, hand already down his pants and pulling as he murmured 'you did so well' over and over again. He spilled in his pants mere seconds later.


	17. Even Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes to the morgue to..........get out of the flat. It has nothing to do with John. Nothing at all.

When Sherlock came out of his bedroom, new pants and pajama trousers on, John was nowhere to be found. He sighed and crumpled against the kitchen table for a moment before going to take a shower himself. 

He needed to get out. He would go to the morgue and harass the new attendant, Melissa or something, into giving him a body part to work on. He needed to get away from John. It was embarrassing enough to have had that reaction, but John recognising it and then talking to him fondly brought the warring factions of sentiment and deep shame out to play. It had been years since he'd felt that way.

He scrubbed his body quickly, being rougher to it than necessary in what he was sure was some attempt at self harm, and rinsed under the hottest water the shower could muster. When he was done, skin red and agitated, he slipped into his bedroom through the adjoining door and put on one of his best suits. He told himself that it was to influence the morgue attendant and not John, but you can tell yourself anything and believe it with enough practice.

John was sitting at the table when Sherlock emerged from his room, already dressed for the day in tight fitting jeans and an army t-shirt. Too much of his upper arms being shown for Sherlock not to notice. 

"Sit down, I've made toast," John said, pushing a plate with buttered toast in Sherlock's direction. "And tea."

"I have to go to the morgue," Sherlock said, nose scrunched as he adjusted his sleeves.

"But you'll have something to eat first," John said.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock replied, refusing to look John in the eye.

"I'm not asking," John replied, voice a bit stiffer.

Sherlock huffed and sat down, cramming half the piece of toast into his mouth in one try and muttering a messy 'happy?'.

"Is everything going to be a fight with you?" John asked, sitting back and crossing his arms.

Sherlock felt what he knew was a flush making its way up his neck and chewed silently.

"Not that I'm not up for it," John went on. "I am."

Sherlock stuffed more of the toast into his mouth and sipped his tea with a butter smeared hand.

"Do you want to know what I think?" John asked just as Sherlock had swallowed and was wiping his hands on a paper napkin.

"Not particularly," Sherlock replied under his breath.

"I think it frightens you how much you need someone with a strong hand to get you to stop acting like a brat," John said, tongue running across his bottom teeth.

"I'm not FRIGHTENED!" Sherlock hissed.

John looked him in the eye and Sherlock thought that must be how people felt when he did the same, naked, exposed.

"I would never hurt you, Sherlock," John replied.

"I can defend myself," Sherlock said, chin held high.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," John said, unperturbed by Sherlock's response.

"I have to go," Sherlock said, standing and going to the door.

"I'll be right here when you decide you need what I have to offer," John said calmly, and wasn't that just insulting?

"Oh, really? And what do you have to offer that I couldn't buy on the street?" Sherlock asked bitingly.

"What you actually need," John replied with a sad smile. "Off you go."

Sherlock snorted and strode from the flat angrily.

_____

Stupid. John was being stupid. Idiotic. Idiotic and self centered and he was making an arse of himself. That was what it was. John was interested in something he wasn't willing to give and it made him look stupid and desperate and whatever he saw, whatever he thought he saw in him had been wrong. He didn't NEED anything.

Sherlock hailed a cab and took off towards Bart's in a cloud of bitterness. 

_____

John left the flat an hour after Sherlock to meet Murray and some of the lads for a game of football in the park. He walked the whole way, needing to get Sherlock off his mind. He was so desperate to protect the man that he was sure he was pushing him too hard. For god's sake, he'd thought John was talking about sex. It pointed towards something unfortunate that Sherlock thought that was what he needed. Wanted, yes, but that would be a disaster.

Murray caught his eye and waved him over, "trouble in paradise?"

John shrugged and took his place among the men.

_____

By the time Sherlock made it home from the morgue the sun had gone down and John had long finished his football game, a pint with the lads, and a shower to get all the sweat off him. He was laying on the sofa on his side with a book in his hand. He had been reading but that had gone quite out the window when Sherlock walked in. He glanced up, stretching his arms, and sat. Sherlock simply stared at him.

"You hungry? I was going to get delivery. There were a few menus on the fridge," he said as he stood. "I was thinking Thai."

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked, undoing his scarf and removing his gloves.

John arranged the hem of his pajama trousers and went to pick the menu from the fridge. When he turned around Sherlock was still staring at him.

"Doing what?" he asked.

"Pretending that you care about me," Sherlock replied, scowl plastered on his face.

"I'm not pretending," John said forcefully.

Sherlock huffed and walked past him and on into his room. He quickly removed his suit jacket and started on the buttons of his shirt.

"You have no ties to me, John. You have no reason to care about me," he said as he slipped into an old t-shirt and removed his trousers.

"I honestly don't know what you're so upset about!" John said, becoming more agitated by the second. "If this is about the...I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I shouldn't have mentioned it. It's just I had one and I thought, bloody hell, I can't believe we're having this conversation."

"You thought you knew what I liked. That's fine, John, that's all fine, but please don't pretend your concern goes any further than your pants," Sherlock spit.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" John shouted, pacing now and getting little glimpses of Sherlock in his own pants through the open door. "You really don't think I give a shit about you."

"You don't even know me," Sherlock said back, stepping into a pair of pajama trousers and walking back into the living area.

"How long, then?" John asked, clearly pushing Sherlock to see how irrational he was being. "How long before I'm allowed to care for you? How much time do I have to spend with you to be your friend?"

"I don't know," Sherlock muttered as he walked past John and fell onto the couch with a sigh.

"Well why not? You seem to have a pretty clear number in your head and I haven't reached it yet. Why won't you just say what I have to do?" John demanded.

"Because I don't know!" Sherlock shouted, hands shaking as they scratched at his forearms.

John deflated a bit and walked over, taking his hands to stop the fevered motions, and sat next to Sherlock.

"I thought we were friends," John said softly. "Thought we were becoming friends. If I've buggered it all up I'm sorry."

"Yes," Sherlock spit.

"Yes, I've buggered it up?" John asked, sounding fearful for the first time that night.

"No. Yes. No, I mean. I meant, yes, I'm hungry," Sherlock replied, stumbling over his words and looking at John out of the corner of his eye.

"Oh. Okay, well, um, Thai?" John asked hopefully.

Sherlock nodded and drew his hands away from John as he rolled onto his side and turned the telly on. John nodded back and smiled gently before standing and getting the menu from where he'd left it in the kitchen and calling in an order.

_____

 

Later, over dinner of Thai delivery and Stella, Sherlock timidly leaned against John where they sat. Once he was full he lay with his head next to John's leg and his own legs hanging over the arm of the sofa. John, who'd just finished eating, set the empty carton down on the table and patted his leg. Sherlock rolled his eyes but acquiesced, scooting up and rolling onto his side so John could rest a hand on his shoulder while they watched telly. After the absolutely horrid day it was wonderfully relaxing, even when Sherlock fell asleep there and John was left with pins and needles hours later. Even then.


	18. The Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality sets in.

There were three days left. John knew it, Sherlock knew it, but neither man wanted to say what it meant. As such they went on acting as if John never had to leave and pressed down the discomfort the lie created until the pressure was too much to handle. John was packing his things that morning and doing laundry when Sherlock came out of his room.

The look on Sherlock's face went quickly from surprise to anger and stayed there for the next few hours. John simply swallowed down a retort and went about folding his clothes. 

When Sherlock finally did say something they were on a crime scene, the two of them flanked by Anderson and Donovan, which John knew was what pushed him over the edge. Anderson had made some little quip about John's army days, secretly trying to ingratiate himself with the doctor, and Sherlock had turned to snarl at him.

"His 'army days' as you put it are not over, idiot," he'd said.

"Sherlock," John tried, going for calming but not hitting the mark.

"No. Don't," Sherlock growled. "I think I'm allowed to be angry. You are leaving after all."

The missing 'me' hung in the air. You are leaving ME. You are leaving me alone with these idiots. You are leaving me after seeing what we're like together, after seeing that this is working so well, after promising you'd never hurt me. Liar, the statement said, liar.

Lestrade cleared his throat and they went back to discussing the crime scene, neither of them relaxing a bit.

_____

Once they'd made it home, which seemed like hours later after the only tense cab ride they'd ever spent together, Sherlock was seething and John felt more than a bit hurt that he could be so angry at him over something neither of them could control.

"Stop banging around!" John shouted after opening the door that Sherlock had quickly slammed in his face, taking advantage of his longer legs and leaving John in their stairwell.

"Or what?" Sherlock hissed. "You'll leave?"

John, refusing to take the bait and content to get a bit of frustration out, took a step forward and pointed at the sofa. Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes, meaning to brush it off, and John stomped his foot.

"Sit," he growled, knowing full well what the sound would do and sincerely wishing he hadn't had to say it.

Sherlock stomped over like a toddler in a fit and then sat with enough force that both of them could hear the sofa groan its complaint. It was meant to be petulant but ended up simply painful on Sherlock's part.

John rested a hand on his shoulder and then left him there, this not being the only time he'd been made to sit down and shut the hell up, and walked to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Sherlock watched him go and, as if John could feel his eyes on his back, was told to keep his eyes on the floor. He sighed but did so, the anger inside him bubbling up unbidden.

"This is really pointless, John," Sherlock said as the water boiled. "I hate this."

John ignored him and continued readying a plate of biscuits and tea as Sherlock stewed. He knew what would happen, had gone through it enough times before. He worked quietly and listened as Sherlock complained over and over again before finally falling silent with a loud harrumph. It was three minutes later that he heard the sigh. He sighed himself and brought the plate to the sofa.

"Come on, then," he said, sitting down and patting the cushion next to him.

Sherlock glanced up slowly scooted over on the sofa, settling into the spot next to John. 

"Say what you need to say," John implored, handing Sherlock his tea and watching him stare into the steaming liquid.

"I don't want you to leave," Sherlock whispered hoarsely.

"I don't want to leave either. It's the job. I signed up for it a long time ago," John replied, resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Would you stay if you could?" Sherlock asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"If they didn't need me, yes," John said. "Don't try to get Mycroft into this."

"How long?" Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer to the question,

"Couple of years. Not sure when I'll have leave next but when I do know I'll tell you," John assured him.

Sherlock set his tea down and curled up into John's lap, something he'd been working towards but unable to let himself do until then. John held his hand over Sherlock's curls hesitantly for a second there before letting it fall and brushing his fingers through the silky locks. Neither of them spoke for hours.

_____

Sherlock rode with John to the airport the day he was set to leave, hand possessively on John's duffel as he still felt unable to put it on the man himself. If he had he would have taken John's hand and pulled him close and gripped his face and then kissed him roughly. That, however, was neither here nor there.

When they pulled up to the unloading area John paid the driver with the rest of the cash in his wallet and let Sherlock lug his bag to the small crowd that had assembled near the second entrance. Murray was waiting with a few other lads and Sherlock's face grew dark as he stepped closer. John walked right over and said hello to Murray's sister and then turned to Sherlock.

"This is my husband," he said, eyes bright. "Sherlock, this is Penny."

Sherlock's nod was a clipped little thing as Penny smiled at him. Murray turned then and clapped him hard on the shoulder and introduced himself. He was overpowering as usual and Sherlock tried his best to take it in stride, knowing the last thing wanted to do was say something that might make the man John trusted so much dislike him.

After a few minutes the boarding numbers were called and John shouldered his bag and looked Sherlock in the eyes. He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes and John had to look away before long. He wasn't sure what Sherlock would be alright with in the way physical signs of affection. He felt like he should touch him somehow, a hand on his shoulder or his neck, but he didn't want their last seconds together to be strained.

"They've called you," Sherlock said flatly.

"Yeah, caught that," John replied.

"You'll get there safe," Sherlock said, more a talisman than anything.

John took a chance and reached out to pull Sherlock against his chest. Sherlock let himself be pulled and rested his chin on John's shoulder and closed his eyes.

"I hate this," Sherlock whispered.

"I love you," John whispered back.

There was a second where John honestly couldn't believe he'd said it. He wanted to laugh out loud, wanted to cackle. He stayed silent and was soon glad he did as Sherlock's next words would have been lost over any other sound.

"I feel the same," Sherlock admitted weakly.


	19. Discarded Letters

Discarded letters:

John,

I love you too. I'm sorry I didn't say it. I hope you've made it safe. I couldn't possibly live without-

 

John,

I meant what I said. I return the sentiment. It isn't easy for me-

 

John,

I miss you. Why did you have to leave? Everything was going so well-

 

John,

If we weren't married would you still care about me? If we'd met under different circumstances-

_____

Sherlock crumpled up the paper and tossed it to the floor with a groan just as Mrs Hudson walked in. She tisked him and picked the balls of paper up and brought them to the kitchen to bin them. That, Sherlock thought, that is my truth being thrown away like it's nothing. He buried his face in the sofa cushion and refused to look up as Mrs H prepared tea. When she walked to the sitting room with it a few minutes later and Sherlock heard her approaching John's chair he then raised his head. She picked up the detective novel John had forgotten and Sherlock shot from his seat to grab it.

"John asked me to look after that," he lied, taking it and tucking it between the cushion and the arm of his chair.

"Oh," she replied. "I know you miss him, dear. Why, when my husband went away to Canada for-"

"You missed him as well. Point taken," Sherlock said dismissively, and then a bit quieter, "did it get any better?"

"It never does," she said, patting Sherlock on the shoulder and turning with a sigh to leave the room.

Sherlock stirred a bit of sugar into his tea and picked the notebook back up. He opened it to a fresh page and began to write again.

_____

It was three days in when John got summoned to the office for another phone call. He walked quickly and tried not to grin.

"Sherlock?" he asked as he picked up the receiver. "You can't keep doing this."

"I wrote you a letter," Sherlock said quickly.

"Oh?" John asked, not sure what he was supposed to say to that.

"Well, I wrote you seven," Sherlock admitted.

John laughed and rubbed a hand over his face. "Did you send them all separately?"

"I didn't send them at all. They were rubbish," Sherlock replied.

"Oh, oh, god, I'm sure they weren't," John said soothingly. "You can, um, you can say what you wanted to now if you'd like. On the phone."

"I miss you and everything is terribly dull and I'm going out of my mind and Lestrade has forbade me from crime scenes until I 'fix my attitude' and Mrs Hudson keeps telling me stories about her dead husband and I have no one to sit with at night."

John was so surprised by the sudden outburst that he was silent long enough for Sherlock to ask if he was still there.

"Yeah, just, well, that's a lot. I'm sorry everything's gone pear shaped," John said before clearing his throat. "I miss you too."

"I'm studying dust particles. Mrs Hudson has threatened to ruin my work several times but we came to an agreement that she simply wouldn't dust certain areas. She's so obsessed with cleanliness," Sherlock said in an agitated manner. 

"Let her take care of you," John said softly, swallowing down the need to run his fingers across Sherlock's brow to push away the curls that he knew must be laying there.

"Are you going to get a haircut?" Sherlock asked quickly.

John was confused for a moment about whether he'd said the thought out loud or if Sherlock was simply being psychic, as he was able to be sometimes. 

"What?" he asked, still getting his bearings back.

"Your hair has become a bit long and I'm sure someone will want to trim it soon. I'll need a new picture," Sherlock explained, voice strained as though it should be obvious.

"I'm not sure, I mean, yeah, at some point," John said, stumbling over his words. "You want a picture if I get it cut?"

Sherlock internally cursed himself for requesting something so sentimental and pointless and was about to tell John he'd changed his mind when someone in the room cleared their throat.

"I have to go," John said quickly. "I'll send you more pictures in my next letter."

"Oh...of course, yes. I'll, well I supposed I could take more as well," Sherlock stuttered.

"Don't throw letters away anymore, okay?" John implored, biting his lip.

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied, softly.

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

_____

Sherlock tossed Mycroft's military ID to the floor and lay back on his bed, letting his arm fall to the side and the mobile roll out of his hand as he closed his eyes and tried to imagine what John was doing just then. It was stupid, this feeling that John should be there with him rather than miles away in the desert. Emotion threatened to choke him and he turned onto his side and curled in on himself until he was a small ball, knees pressed to forehead.

He groaned when he heard his mobile chime. The blasted thing chimed every minute until almost half an hour later he picked it up to find only two missed texts. One was from Mycroft and read simply 'ID'. To this Sherlock chuckled. The second was from his mother, notifying him that they'd made it back to the family home and requesting his presence for dinner. He quickly tapped out a reply.

CAN'T DO DINNER. WORKING ON A PROJECT FOR MYCROFT. SH

He closed his eyes again and dropped the mobile to sit on the floor next to Mycroft's ID.

_____

There was a knock at the door several hours later and Sherlock refused to move. He knew it was Mycroft, bloody umbrella making a racket the whole way up the stairs. When he'd taken to walking with it a few years back Sherlock was sure if he teased him mercilessly he would give up the insipid thing. It hadn't worked. He'd even got his brother a new one that past year for his birthday, a wondrous green umbrella with a snake's head carved into the handle. Mycroft had said he'd use it for special occasions but that for the everyday it lent a strange baddie feel to his three piece suit. Sherlock hadn't mentioned that had been the idea. 

He was shaken from his memories by the tip of Mycroft's bland umbrella being pushed into his side. He growled and rolled away from it.

"That thing has touched the ground all over the country!" he complained. "Don't poke me with it!"

"You have a decapitated head in your icebox," Mycroft replied smoothly.

"So?" Sherlock huffed.

"So you'll take mummy up on her offer or the morgue will be notified as to where the head is," Mycroft replied.

"I didn't steal it!" Sherlock said, sitting bolt upright, face colouring.

Mycroft simply arched an eyebrow, knowing time and silence always had a way of making his brother tell the truth.

"Fine, I stole it! Is that what you want to hear? That I'm a thief? I'm not sorry! They weren't even using it!" Sherlock hissed, standing and going to the closet to find something to wear to stupid dinner with his stupid parents and stupid brother in that stupid house.

"Wear the red shirt, the one mummy bought you for Christmas," Mycroft said as he looked down at his cleanly cut nails.

Sherlock snorted and took a bone-white shirt from its hanger. In truth the red shirt was one of his favorites, but really, did Mycroft need to know that?

"Aren't you going to shower?" Mycroft asked as Sherlock started to slip the shirt on. 

The younger man picked his deodorant up and made a show of putting on more than truly needed before buttoning the shirt up and stomping into the sitting room. Mycroft's nose curled at the prospect of sitting so close to his brother after the man hadn't bathed in a few days and was a tad relieved to hear his next demand.

"I won't ride with you in that horrid government car. I'll be right behind," Sherlock said, picking up his wallet and keys and stomping down the stairs, every step making his greasy curls bounce.


	20. Better Than Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock faces the family and John starts a letter to him.

Sherlock regretted not showering once he was in the cab. His skin felt greasy and his hair itched a bit. He sighed loudly and made the driver turn around, not too upset over the prospect of being late to dinner. He ran up the stairs and into the flat then stripped and got into the shower. He scrubbed his body in stilted movements, the image of John in nothing but a towel flitting through his mind unbidden. He shook it off and got out to put on some clean pants and trousers, all the while thinking of a way to make sure Mycroft knew he hadn't showered because he'd been asked.

Once dressed he again left the flat again and found a ubiquitous black cab out of the city. He thought of John the whole way. He wondered if he'd like the family, his family too now. For some strange reason he hoped so.

_____

Mummy started to fret upon him the second he was through the door and he wished he'd taken the time on the walk from the road to have a smoke. He already felt anxiety moving in. He let her do her thing and answered a few questions before greeting father and taking a seat next to him in front of the fire.

"It's good of you to come," he father said. "She's been quite worried about you, you know."

Sherlock shrugged and sipped from the brandy he'd been given.

"Mycroft tells me John spent his leave with you."

"Yes, well, his mother is out of the country and you haven't set up the new flat for her as of yet. I didn't want him staying on the street," Sherlock spit, not sure why he was upset admitting it other than the fact that it came from his brother.

"It was good of you," his father added. "Did you two get along?"

"Yes," Sherlock said with less venom.

"As well as two people who've never met and are now married can, I take it," Father said with a small smile.

Sherlock huffed and played with his glass while refusing to answer. If this was all they wanted to talk about he'd rather die.

"I know it's odd, but it's for the best," Father added.

Sherlock was saved from the conversation, if only for the time being, by dinner being called. He stood gracefully and walked to the dining room with his head down. Mycroft was already sitting with a napkin tucked into his shirt, something mother always loved to do to him, and a bland look on his face. Sherlock took his seat across from him and dragged his fork against his plate.

"Sherlock!" Mother said loudly at the awful sound.

Sherlock let the fork fall and settled in to meet his fate.

_____

John was staring up at the ceiling of his tent thinking what he should write next. He wasn't sure whether Sherlock would be interested in the day to day goings on of a soldier, even a medic. He'd spent the day patching up small wounds and trying not to fall asleep. He really needed to be up organizing the new med supplies but he was seriously going to lose his mind if he didn't get out of those damn fluorescent lights.

He rolled onto his side and picked up his pen, pressing it between his lips and chewing on the end. 

_____

They were halfway through the dinner before Mummy parroted what Father had said earlier. 

"So, Mycroft tells me John stayed with you while he was on his leave. Did you two get on?" she asked with a small smile, as though she already knew the answer.

"We got along fine, I suppose," Sherlock said quickly, going back to playing with his food and thinking about how John would be disappointed that he hadn't eaten very much.

"He came with you on at least two cases," Mycroft interjected. "I'd say it was better than fine."

Sherlock ignored the statement completely as Mummy grinned into her napkin.

"Went on cases with you? How nice," she said.

"He was useful," Sherlock replied flatly.

Mummy took a deep breath and put her hand over Sherlock's.

"Darling. I know it wasn't what you wanted but his mother needed the help and it worked out wonderfully for your father and I. I'm sure after some time it won't seem so-" she began.

"No, he's fine. It, well, it's...fine," Sherlock said, pulling his hand away and sticking a carrot into his mouth as he felt a blush creep onto his cheeks.

_____

John put the pen to paper and started to write.

'Sherlock,

I miss you terribly. I knew I would before I had to leave, I just hadn't realised the extent to which I would. I miss our evenings together as well. I can't wait to come home.

-'


	21. Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives a letter from Sherlock.

John snatched the letter from Murray's hand before the poor man could tell him it was his and walked with it to his bunk. He lay on his stomach on the cot and ran his fingers over the thick envelope then stuck the tip of a finger in the edge and tore it open. There were three pieces of paper folded neatly inside and John took a second to smell them before unfolding. The whole lot was lightly scented with Sherlock's aftershave and John let himself fully experience the pain in his chest at the reminder of what was almost his. He swallowed hard and opened his eyes once again to look at his bounty.

The first page was an invite to a wedding. It looked as though Sherlock's brother was getting married. He wondered if he and Sherlock would have had a wedding had the end of his leave not come before he had even met the genius. He felt slightly uncomfortable with the idea of Mycroft getting to have a wedding and Sherlock not, although he knew for a fact Sherlock would have wanted nothing to do with it.

The second page was a printout of Sherlock's uni ID above a printout of his current Bart's admittance card. Both faces scowled at John thought one had quite a lot more curls and what might have been orthodontic braces. John found himself giggling and hiding his face in the paper and feeling all around like a child again. 

After he went from uncontrollable laughter to wondering how hard it had been for a man like Sherlock to be a boy in uni he cleared his throat and opened the letter.

'John,

I just thought you'd like to know Mrs Hudson won't stop talking about you. She thinks you're a 'godsend' and can't seem to shut up about how I 'eat breakkie' everyday. She is, of course exaggerating immensely, but you would know that. I do have toast now, though, because I'm sure you would have a fit if you came home and found I'd lost the weight you managed to put on me in your short time in residence. It's more fear of disappointment than want to please, if you're wondering.

Went to dinner at my parent's house tonight. It was incredibly boring. Mycroft told my parents you stayed with me and now they're so eager to meet you they might just find a way to stop this incessant war of yours. I wouldn't put it past Mycroft at least.

He's getting married. They're going to have a wedding and everything. It's going to be hellish. I was introduced to her family during dessert. She's worked for Mycroft for the past five years so I suppose it's a marriage made in corporate heaven. She barely looked up from her mobile. I rather liked it.

I think I'll go see Lestrade tomorrow. He can't stay mad at me for too long, he'll never get that promotion he wants. It would be much easier if you were here, by the way. I'm holding it against you that you've gone back and I'm stuck here pushing my deductions off on people who would rather not hear them. That was a joke. I can't hold it against you. 

The new morgue attendant is more, let's say, flexible than the last. She's let me take home several human organs without any sort of promise to bring them back, even set aside a few toes on the off chance I'd be in. She keeps asking if I want coffee. I tried explaining that she knows exactly how I take it, or should by now, but she simply looks flustered and flutters away. Strange woman.

I'm tired, John. I'm on the sofa watching Bond and it's all your fault and I'm bloody tired. 

Stupidly Yours,

Sherlock Holmes' 

John shut his eyes forcefully on the tears that pricked at the edges and pressed his face into the bedding.


	22. IN Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets John's letter and knows he has to make an admission.

'Sherlock,

I miss you terribly. I knew I would before I had to leave, I just hadn't realised the extent to which I would. I miss our evenings together as well. I can't wait to come home. I know you had mentioned before that you could find me a flat and I hope you can tell now that I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

I'm happy for your brother. I don't know if I'll be able to make it to the wedding. 

I hope you'll be a bit more forgiving with Lestrade. He really is good at his job and he has to look out for his people. Don't be such a dick and maybe he'll let you back onto a crime scene soon. I wish I could go with you, there's honestly nothing more exciting than running after you through the night.

I'm glad you're eating a bit more regularly. Even if it's just toast. 

The morgue attendant is hitting on you. As much as I'd like to say I don't expect you to turn her down it would kill me if you didn't. 

Yours as well,  
John'

Sherlock read the last line over again. John would be upset if he went on a date. Something lurched inside him and he curled into a small ball on the sofa, thoroughly unable to stop the ridiculous smile that crossed his face. John Watson didn't want him to go on a date. John Watson didn't want him to go on a date with ANYONE ELSE. Did that mean John wouldn't date anyone else? The thought hadn't occurred to him. He'd always assumed John would be his companion and nothing more. Then again, that was before John gave him the frightening insight that he was lovable. That John loved him. 

Love had always confused Sherlock. The difference between the love of a parent and the love of a spouse. The difference between being in love with someone and loving them. There were so many variations on love and Sherlock hadn't thought anyone besides family would feel any of them for him.

The second John had told him he loved him it had shocked the hell out of him, to be honest. He felt horribly guilty that he had told John he felt the same when he didn't. John loved him as a friend, as family. John wanted to protect him and that was all. He felt differently. He wanted to hold John, wanted to kiss him. He wanted everyone to know he was his. He wanted to wear his wedding ring everyday and have people see that he loved someone so much he had sworn to for the rest of his life. There was the lie, though. He hadn't sworn anything, at least not out loud. 

But John...John didn't want Molly to take him on a date. 

He stood quickly and stomped to his bedroom to get his mobile and send out a text.

MOLLY, YOUR ATTEMPTS TO WOO ME ARE FLATTERING BUT POINTLESS. I'M IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE ELSE. SH

He hit send and felt relief flow through him. John didn't want him to date because John wanted to date him. John wanted to take him on a date. John wanted to hold his hand in public and possibly kiss him and...and he really needed to stop thinking in that direction becuase his chest was starting to hurt and he felt a bit faint and yes, sitting down was a rather good idea though he wished he'd made it to a chair and not the cold hard floor of the kitchen. John.

He picked his phone back up and went through the several minutes of finagling it took to get a live line through to John's base.

"Sherlock?" John asked, voice startled, or, no, sleepy.

Sherlock felt awful for waking him but decided he might as well say what he'd called to say.

"I'm in love with you."

He heard the receiver shift and what was probably John sitting down with a sigh. When John spoke next he was happy, his smile making it into his voice.

"Yes, I had gathered as much," he said.

"Oh, I, I just figured I should let you know. I told Molly as much," Sherlock said, fumbling with his words as he didn't know John had seen how in love with him he was.

"Molly?" John asked.

"The morgue attendant. The one who was, well, I see it now. I hadn't realised what she was doing. I never intended to give her the wrong impression," Sherlock explained.

There was a loud bang in the background on John's side and Sherlock listened carefully as men started yelling.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, I've got to go. I'm sorry," John said, and just before the phone disconnected there was a loud call of 'medic'.

Sherlock stood looking at his mobile for a long time before he rushed out the door and made his way to the Diogenes.

_____

"There's no news yet," Mycroft said almost an hour later from behind his large mahogany desk.

"Why the hell not?" Sherlock demanded loudly from where he was pacing across the room. "This isn't the bloody dark ages!"

Mycroft sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, looking his brother up and down carefully for any sign that he was exaggerating the situation. When Sherlock's bottom lip shook and he turned away quickly Mycroft made a decision.

"We'll put you on a flight," he said calmly. "You'll be here in seven hours."

Sherlock turned and nodded quickly.

"Go pack a bag," Mycroft added. "One of my men will pick you up when your travel papers and authorizations are ready."

"Thank you, Mycroft," Sherlock said, voice tight.

"I'll radio you on the way with updates. I'm sure he's fine," Mycroft said, more unsure than he would ever admit.


	23. I Wouldn't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Firefight breaks out at John's base. Sherlock takes a flight to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long, I'm dealing with a lot of stuff at work right now.

John ran towards the explosion, the dust and debris filling the air before him. Merril was already there and pressed his kit into his hands before pulling a fellow soldier out from under what John supposed was part of the wall. The woman's legs were covered in blood but at further examination they weren't injured too badly. John left Merril to clean the small gashes and went further into the fray.

There was gunfire up ahead and he ducked behind a building before assessing the firefight and kneeling to pull an injured man out of the way. He tore the man's shirtsleeve and quickly staunched the bleeding from a bullet wound. He'd have to dig the bullet out later.

He heard another loud bang and looked around the corner to find Murray collapsed on the ground, his breathing shallow and eyes closed. He should have paid more attention when ducking out, he knew it, but his mind was drawn to Murray and a man laying beside him. He at least got them away from danger before the bullet tore through his shoulder. 

The pain was bright and sharp and he looked up to find Merril waiting for him as he crawled back to safety. His assistant's eyes were focused as he tore away his shirt and started to try to stop the bleeding. He let his head fall to the side and saw a pool of blood reaching out towards Murray's unconscious face. He blinked once and passed out.

_____

By the time Sherlock made it onto the plane Mycroft had found out the exact location John had been airlifted to and directed the pilot to it. As the plane took off Sherlock looked over John's last letter and then folded it neatly and tucked it back into his breast pocket. He hated himself for ever wishing John would die in battle. The memory of how easily he'd turned the idea over in his head made his stomach sick and he retreated into his mind palace.

The front door to it opened and John stood there smiling. John. John in his worn denims and blue checked shirt. Sherlock stepped carefully in and crumpled to his knees in front of the perfect representation of the man he loved. Mind palace John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and hushed his sobs.

_____

The coffee was shit. His husband was in the third surgery that day and those bastards didn't even have the decency to give him good coffee. His mobile, well, the one Mycroft's people had given him, rang again and he threw it at the wall. Then he threw the paper cup and bit his tongue as he watched the coffee drip down to the floor, the colour weakening the longer it dripped.

The mobile rang again from its place on the tile and Sherlock choked back a sob and pulled his knees up to his chest.

_____

John was pale. He didn't like how pale John was. The bandage was large, much larger than Sherlock thought should be necessary for one bullet hole.

"The third surgery went well. We were able to stabalise the bone and stitch him up. He should be awake within the hour, Mr Holmes," the surgeon said.

Sherlock simply glowered at her and sat in the white plastic chair next to John's hospital bed. He ran his thumb over his wedding ring and something occurred to him. He looked up quickly and spoke before the woman could leave the room.

"His ID tags. They had a gold ring on them," he said, voice rough from the crying he'd done in the loo earlier. "I need it. John should be wearing it."

The woman nodded and passed a tray over. On it Sherlock found what had been on John's person when he'd been airlifted in. His clothes were mangled and blood stained and therefore had been folded into a clear plastic bag and set next to the bed but there was something else bloodstained on the tray.

He picked up the small bag and opened it to take out the square of paper. He unfolded it and held it in his hands. They shook quite terribly as his eyes welled up with tears. It was the first letter he'd sent to John, the folds worn as though it had been handled quite a bit. He cleared his throat and slipped it back into the bag before picking up the ball chain with John's ID tags and his ring and trying to open it.

His fingers fumbled it and he cringed at the blood that was transferred over. The damn thing wouldn't come open. He growled and pulled at it until it broke apart and the tags and ring went flying to the floor.

He knelt so quickly his knees cried out in pain, scrambled to pick them up and then went into the small bathroom and rinsed the blood from his hands and the tags and then the ring, swallowing thickly and holding the gold band with pained reverence. He promised himself then that he'd buy John another ring, a ring he'd pick out himself, once they were home.

He dried everything on a paper towel and went back to John's side, kicking the chain away and slipped the ID tags into his pocket.

"I hate these rings. I didn't want them. It was all Mycroft's idea," he said as he slipped John's onto his finger carefully and then held onto his hand a bit longer. "I resented mine for so long. Well, that's not quite true, is it. I stopped resenting it once you wrote back to me. It was more confused fascination at that point, knowing you had the matching one and wondering if you wore it. I thought once that it would be easier if you died."

Sherlock sat then, unable to stand after such an admission.

"I didn't know you then and you can't hear me now so you aren't allowed to hold it against me. It was easier when you were just a vague notion, when you weren't real. The second I heard your voice I knew I was buggered. You sounded so human. That's stupid, I know, you couldn't have sounded any other way. Stupid, don't you see, don't you see what you've done to me?" he demanded. "I was afraid of the thought of you and now I'm afraid of losing you. You've utterly ruined me for the rest of time and the only reason I'm not suffocating you right now with that bloody cheap pillow is the fact that I can't possibly live without you and I'd have to do myself in right after. Jesus, I'm talking like I'm mad. I wouldn't...I wouldn't hurt you. I wouldn't."

He stood and brushed his thumb across John's pale bottom lip and then pulled back his hand to slap him. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that he was suddenly back on his knees and then his side, sobbing on the cold linoleum floor like a child.

_____

Almost exactly an hour later John's eyes flitted open and he turned his head with a groan. Sherlock jumped from his seat and gripped John's hand carefully. John took a deep, pained breath and squeezed Sherlock's hand before closed his eyes again.


	24. It Could Take Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, folks. Hope you like it.

Mycroft's influence was enough to buy up the second bed in John's hospital room so when Sherlock felt like he needed to sleep, just for a while, mind you, he didn't have to leave John's side. The nurses didn't have to say no to him so they fell in love with him and John from afar. When Sherlock pushed the second hospital bed over so he and John could be closer he heard a few of them coo. He quickly closed the door and slipped off his shoes.

"I'm just laying down. I'm not actually going to go to sleep," Sherlock told John's sleeping form. 

He slipped his jacket off and got onto the bed, laying on his side so he could watch the rise and fall of John's chest, and felt the pull of sleep grip him. He wasn't tired. He didn't often get tired. This was more like a medical condition. He was bloody exhausted. He'd been awake much longer before but it had never been accompanied by plane rides and emotional trauma. He only closed his eyes for a second, arm reached out and hand gripping the side of John's hospital sheets.

_____

The next time John woke he was confused as to where he was. He tried to sit up and cried out in pain. Sherlock shot out of his adjoining bed and took his hand.

"Stay still. You've been shot," Sherlock said with quiet intensity. "You're in the hospital now."

"What about...what about the others? Did Merril make it out? What about Murray?" John asked, top lip curled at the ache in his side and shoulder.

"I...I don't know," Sherlock replied, suddenly feeling quite useless. "I can find out."

"How are you here? I'm not back in London, am I?" John asked, grimacing and closing his eyes.

"No, not yet," Sherlock said. "They won't let me move you for a few more days."

"Move me? I can't go home, Sherlock! I've got to get back to my squad!" John said, irritation taking over his whole manner and making his body go stiff.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and his gaze fell to the floor.

"What? Sherlock, what aren't you telling me?" John asked angrily.

"Captain Watson. Good to see you awake but your heart monitor had the nurses worried," came a voice from the door.

The two men looked up to see a doctor with a sickeningly false smile. He made his way in and took a seat in the chair next to John's bed and Sherlock felt both protective and frightened at what he might say. The fact that John wouldn't want to return to London hadn't crossed his mind, let alone the idea that he'd be angry over it. Now this man was going to tell the two of them whether or not he'd even be able to stay in the army at all.

"The good news is that we were able to remove not only the bullet and bone shards but also the shrapnel incurred when your helicopter went down," the man said.

Both Sherlock and John looked confused but John was the first to talk.

"What helicopter?" he asked gravely.

"The first time they attempted to remove you and your fellow wounded soldiers the helicopter was shot down. You and another few men survived, the pilot and the medic did not," the man replied, already looking like he had a feeling he wasn't supposed to be the one giving the man this news. "The second extraction got you here safely."

"I need to talk to my CO," John insisted. 

"I'll make a note of that," the doctor replied.

"Bullshit!" John barked. "Ring him up. Now."

The doctor stood carefully, acting as though he were standing on a live mine, and nodded before leaving.

"John," Sherlock murmured.

"I can't move my left arm," John replied shortly. "I'm bloody left handed."

"The doctor said it could take time," Sherlock tried.

"With all due respect," John stated, nostrils flaring, "I don't have time."

Sherlock nodded and stood to leave to room as well.

"I'm sorry," John whispered.

Sherlock stopped in the doorway and looked down at his feet.

"I'll just go get us some tea," he said meekly.

_____

That night when John fell asleep, long after they'd finished the weak tea the hospital provided and sat in utter silence while the second doctor explained the extent to John's injuries and after his commanding officer talked to him on the phone about his discharge, Sherlock sat up watching him breathe. He didn't know how to talk to John, didn't know how to tell him that he was so incredibly happy that he couldn't yet control his left arm because that meant he was still alive and could be there in Sherlock's life. He didn't know how to tell him that he'd been relieved to find John's injuries to be less severe than he'd imagined on the long plane ride over, couldn't tell him how he'd thought John was dead or horribly disabled and even then, even if that were true, how he'd never stop loving him.

He didn't know how to say it so he didn't say anything. He let John be angry and fearful and so many other horrible things becuase he had no idea how to fix it. He felt quite suddenly impotent for the first time in his life. This didn't happen, not to him. He always knew what to do, always had the answer, whether people wanted it or not. Now he was left reeling, his mind spinning and gripping at anything he could remember about injuries this bad. He felt bitter when he knew he could explain how the damage would look below the surface, the skin and muscle taught and stringy and how the scar might look under the harsh light of the morgue's examination table but nothing more. Nothing he knew would do any good and he wanted, so badly, to do something good, something right, for John.

_____

The next week was monotonous and though Sherlock became a bit stir crazy, harassing the staff and trying to talk his way into their labs, he refused to leave John's side for longer than an hour. John didn't know how to explain to him that he needed time alone so it came out rather harshly on the seventh day.

John had just found out that Murray was fine but two others that he tried to save had succumbed to their injuries. He was still stuck on the knowledge that he'd never be the same and now he knew that they would never be anything ever again, that they were no more because he'd failed them. At least that's how he felt, hospital therapist be damned.

"Maybe you'd like some tea," Sherlock tried, seeing how irritated John was and wanting to ease it. "Although I could stay...I could have one of the imbeciles fetch it, God knows they're no good at anything else."

"No, go. Just, go," John snapped.

"So you do want tea?" Sherlock asked hesitantly, feeling the tension building.

"No, I don't want anymore of that horrible tea I just want to be left alone for a while so I can figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do with the rest of my bloody life now that I'm broken and useless and pitiful!" John shouted suddenly.

He saw the way Sherlock's face went slack and then into a bizarre sort of mask of indifference and sighed loudly, covering his face with one hand. 

"Look, Sherlock, I just-" he started, but Sherlock was gone, having left quickly after John's outburst.

John willed himself to close his eyes and let himself relax even as guilt tore into him.

_____

Sherlock spent the whole day in a pub down the way drinking seltzer water and ignoring the looks the other patrons gave him. John needed space, of course he did. He would just give John space, even if he did have a horrible way of asking for it. 

It wasn't him, he reminded himself, it was the trauma. Mycroft had sent him several books on what to expect when a loved one went through something like this and they'd all said it, that John would need time to get over the injury and come to terms with what it meant for his future.

He sipped more of his drink and looked out the door at the passing cars and people. God, he hated this place. He couldn't wait to be back in England where they belonged.

_____

His wish came sooner than he'd thought and John was let out of hospital and they got on a plane home. John was to take up out patient care when they got back and continue with the painful physical therapy that was slowly making a difference in his range of motion. 

They went to the private plane Mycroft sent with John still in a wheelchair and when he stood to get up the steps and into the body of the plane he scowled down at his newly acquired cane. It was difficult to get up the stairs, few as they were, but he made it eventually and slumped into a chair, exhausted and embarrassed at it.

Seven hours and thirty eight minutes later they landed and Mycroft's driver helped load their things into the back of a black sedan. Sherlock was relieved when he opened the door to find his brother quite remarkably absent from the interior. He held the door open for John and slipped in beside him.

John stared out the window the whole way home and remained silent as they walked up the stairs to the flat and when Sherlock helped him settle into his bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared blankly at the wall as Sherlock got him his pain medication and antibiotics with a glass of water.

"John," Sherlock said softly.

The man looked up quite suddenly, eyebrows knit, and took a few seconds to grip the glass of water held out to him. Sherlock pressed the pills into his hand and John bent his head to take the antibiotic between his lips and drink the water.

"Don't want this," he said as he tried to hand the pain pill back.

"Don't particularly care," Sherlock replied, eyebrows raised and eyes serious.

John huffed and took it as well, bitterly opening his mouth to show Sherlock he'd in fact taken the pill as if Sherlock were some psych patient nurse. Sherlock sighed and started to unbutton his shirt.

"What are you doing?" John asked, confusion knitting his brow.

"Getting ready for bed. I'm not going to sleep downstairs while you lay up here. I need to be close incase you need something," Sherlock said. "Speaking of which, I'll bring a basin of water up so you can brush your teeth."

"I'm not a child," John replied weakly.

"No, you're my patient," Sherlock said with surprising confidence, not leaving room to broker.

He walked out and John managed to get his jeans off and his shirt unbuttoned by the time he made it back. He helped John out of his shirt without a word and brushed his teeth next to him, rinsed his mouth with the water left over from John's glass, removed his trousers and slipped under the covers. John finished up and switched off the light with his right hand and joined Sherlock in the bed, laying on his back and staring at the ceiling. He was worried he'd have a nightmare and strike out and Sherlock could feel the tension.

"Incase you forgot," Sherlock whispered, having to stop partway through to swallow roughly, "I love you."

John breathed deeply through his nose and pulled Sherlock's arm across his waist.

"I feel the same," he replied gently. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock, who had been rendered speechless by John's motions, gripped the man's hip and awkwardly kissed his shoulder.


	25. Nothing Happens To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to his first therapy appointment and Sherlock tries to cheer him up with a case.

The pain was bad. John wouldn't admit it and that only seemed to make things more tense. Sherlock couldn't understand why he wouldn't just take another bloody pain pill. There was a battle being waged inside of him over it and it was something Sherlock had no intention of delving into without first being asked.

John was standing by the front door as if he'd forgot why he was there.

"I could come with you," Sherlock tried from where he was sat at the kitchen table, pulling his protective glasses off to show he meant it.

"No. No, it's fine. I'll be back soon," John replied, clutching at his leg and trying to put the fear of God into his cane with nothing more than a stern glance.

"Don't forget your medicine," Sherlock said, trying to sound nonchalant as opposed to nagging.

"Mmm," John grumbled.

"Do you need me to get it?" Sherlock asked, surprised once again by how tight his chest got over that small issue.

"I'll take it when I get back," John said, finally gripping the cane and walking down the stairs.

Sherlock sighed and went to the sink to fill a glass with water then took the bottle from the windowsill and walked them down to the bottom of the stairs where John was waiting. John refused to meet his eyes, jaw clenched tight over the pain, but took what was handed his way none the less. 

It had been three weeks since they first started sleeping in the same bed and though they embraced leading up to and often times during sleep no other type of physical affection had become the norm. Sherlock wouldn't admit he was aching for it but the way he held John's upper arm for a few seconds proved it on its own. John cleared his throat, gave out a weak 'thank you' and left the flat.

Sherlock stood in the entryway for a long while after he'd gone.

_____

John was back to the flat an hour and a half later feeling no better for the trip. The woman, Ella, had been nice enough but he really had no intention of explaining himself to anyone. Just telling her how he'd ended up out of the military and in a stiff chair across from her had been exhausting. 

Sherlock was splayed out on the sofa facedown and unresponsive. 

"Sherlock?" he asked, hoping the man was off on his own in his mind palace.

Not a single twitch.

"I bloody know it's psychosomatic," John said once he was sure he wouldn't be heard. "I am a doctor, after all. She told me her diagnosis like I didn't already know. I don't know...don't know what I'm supposed to be getting out of this. She told me to start a blog. Said writing about what happened to me would help me fit in, or some such shite. I told her nothing happens to me."

That off his chest John made his way towards his chair and sat silently. 

_____

Three hours later the sun was just going down and Sherlock suddenly sat bolt upright and looked to John.

"It was the sister," he said loudly.

John's head shot up, thoroughly lost in his book until Sherlock spoke, and he tossed his mobile over.

Sherlock caught it and grinned before typing the answer along to Lestrade and handing John back his phone on his way to the kitchen. John watched him go, always loving how Sherlock could be pulled from near hibernation back to full alertness so immediately. The mobile buzzed in his hand and he answered it.

"Hello," he said, watching Sherlock's back as the man poked away at something in the sink.

"John, put Sherlock on, will you?" Lestrade said, voice tense.

"Yeah, just a tic," John replied.

He held the phone out to Sherlock and then wiggled it a bit to get the man's attention. Sherlock came back into the room and took it with a loud sigh. John watched him fall onto the sofa again and speak with Greg. The conversation was a normal one for a few moments, normal meaning Sherlock was rolling his eyes and acting bored, until his eyes lit up.

"What do you mean she's dead?" he asked.

John's ears perked up and he leaned forward, uncaring now whether Sherlock noticed he was listening in. 

"Well, of course you'd think that, you're an idiot," Sherlock added as he stood and motioned for John to do the same.

John slipped into his jacket and watched as Sherlock set the mobile down to put on his coat and then picked it up again and pretended he hadn't. John chuckled and followed him down the steps and out into the cool evening. Sherlock gave a few more slightly scathing insults and then rang off and hailed a cab.

"You've been on cases with me before, John," he said with an unreadable expression.

"Yes," John said, already forgetting about the pain in his leg as adrenalin started to pump into his veins.

"Ready for another?" Sherlock asked, left side of his lips quirked.

John huffed a laugh and got into the cab as Sherlock held the door open. He waited until Sherlock had joined him and given the driver the address before licking his lips and murmuring 'I thought you'd never ask'. Sherlock grinned out the window and they were on their way.

_____

Ten or so minutes later they pulled up to a large hotel. John could see Sally Donovan by the front door talking on her mobile as a man he didn't recognize rolled out the caution tape at the perimeter. He paid the driver and followed Sherlock out and up the front steps.

It was the first time that he'd been on a crime scene since his injury and he felt apprehension bloom in his belly as he hobbled along behind Sherlock. The last thing he needed right now was some idiot making an offhand comment about his cane.

"Sally," Sherlock started as they drew near, and then softer so John couldn't overhear, "mention the cane and I'll tell Anderson's wife."

She swallowed and looked at John before nodding and letting them through. Neither of them knew that she'd had no intention of doing so. She was rude to Sherlock but he'd always deserved it. John watched her as he passed and she simply frowned and stood out of the way.

Lestrade was waiting inside with Anderson and a few others. He motioned for the men to leave when he saw Sherlock approaching and took out his notebook. Sherlock grabbed a pair of gloves and slipped them on.

"She's over here," he said. "Don't think she could have killed her brother, not from here."

Sherlock dismissed the speculation with a wag of his hand and went to kneel by the body as John took his place next to him. Lestrade watched them for a few seconds before leaving the room to let them do their thing in silence.

"This is the one with the inheritance money, right?" John asked, watching the way Sherlock scratched at the skin near the handcuffs and then looked closely at his fingertips as he moved closer, nearly sharing Sherlock's breath.

"Mmm," Sherlock replied, eyes flicking between John's own and the man's tongue as it drew across his bottom lip. "The father passed away last month and the brother was found dead in his flat just this last week. She did it."

"Lestrade thinks she was here?" John asked.

"Yes, because he's never had anything but vanilla sex. Take the handcuffs," Sherlock said, gesturing to the flimsy things still attached to the girl's wrists. "This type is sold frequently in upscale sex shops. There's a release just...here."

Sure enough, the handcuff sprung loose when Sherlock ran his thumb along the inside rim the right way.

"Hardly sturdy enough to be used by kidnappers as he thought. That and the type of the cord used to tie her ankles," Sherlock added, pointing to said cord and typing something into his mobile before holding the screen up. "Japanese silk rope. You'd never find a criminal using this when one can buy something for a tenth of the cost at the local hardware shop. The death was a mistake. She was intending to have a good time, using the money she got from the inheritance to treat her lover to a night here."

"That's...well," John tried, eventually giving up altogether and clearing his throat.

Sherlock stared at him for what felt like a rather long time. John's neck was red and the flush was beginning to move up to the tips of his ears as it spread across his cheeks. Sherlock didn't understand where the flush was coming from and continued to stare until John pointedly turned and pretended to be inspecting the far wall.

"I'm bored, let's go home," Sherlock said, standing and tapping away at his mobile as he binned the rubber gloves and left the room.

John followed him after looking the body over one more time and nearly ran into Anderson as he made it into the next room. Sherlock spun and stared daggers at the man who said a simple 'sorry' and kept moving.

"What do you mean she did it? Sherlock, you can't just leave!" Lestrade growled as Sherlock passed him.

"All the information you need to solve the case is in the email I just sent," Sherlock said, refusing to stop moving or even to look at the detective inspector.

"What about her murder? Aren't you even interested in-" Lestrade began.

"Purely accidental. John, come along," Sherlock replied flatly.

John followed him out and into a cab and they were soon enough back to the flat. 

Something was wrong with Sherlock. John didn't know what it was, but the man seemed a bit unhinged. He was staring off into the distance and chewing his lip and for once John wasn't completely sure he was in his mind palace. Once they were up the stairs and into the flat Sherlock started to pace.

"Something's bothering you," John said, closing the door behind himself and watching Sherlock move agitatedly.

"No," Sherlock fibbed.

"What's wrong?" John asked, slipping out of his jacket and hanging it with care.

"That was supposed to be it," Sherlock muttered angrily.

"Supposed to be what?" John asked.

"The case! The case! That was supposed to be what would get you out of your...your funk!" Sherlock insisted, pulling at his hair.

"My funk?" John asked, more than a little perturbed,

"You need excitement and I can't seem to give it and you're all...you said nothing happens to you!" Sherlock replied.

John's mouth went dry and he clenched his jaw.

"You heard that?" he asked.

"I hear everything," Sherlock said sulkily.

"You don't have to entertain me," John said, going to sit on the sofa.

Sherlock was suddenly in his personal space, looking him in the eyes with a painful intensity. John swallowed hard and didn't break the eye contact. Sherlock's eyes darted down as he licked his lips and something changed.

"Sherlock," he said warningly, not sure what he was warning him of.

"It's my proximity," Sherlock said, answering the unasked question.

John felt something tingling inside himself and sat back, needing to break the moment. Sherlock moved with him and was suddenly straddling him where he sat.

"Sherlock," he warned again.

Sherlock's face was completely blank as he searched John's eyes and then pressed his face to the shorter man's neck and breathed deeply. John felt all the air rush out of him and closed his eyes, having Sherlock so close with the lights on was making his nerves buzz.

"I thought it was the way the woman was restrained but it was me, it was being close to me," Sherlock murmured, breath hot on John's neck. "You were affected by me."

John sniffed loudly and nodded once, the move brushing his ear over Sherlock's nose.

"John, I...I'd like to kiss you," Sherlock said unsteadily.

John felt dizzy, head spinning as he let his eyes open slowly. Sherlock drew his head back and searched him for permission.

"Yeah, yes...yes," he mumbled.

Sherlock surged forward and sealed their lips together. John shifted slightly and rested his hands on Sherlock's hips and the younger man sighed and let his lips fall open. John sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and then pressed his tongue between his lips and along the inside of his bottom teeth. The move caused Sherlock to moan and wrap his arms around John's neck before licking back and humming contentedly.

When they finally broke apart they were both breathing roughly and grinning. Sherlock started to chuckle first and John joined him shortly after. They laughed and Sherlock rested his head on John's uninjured shoulder.

"I've been wanting to do that for ages," John admitted.

"Mmm," Sherlock agreed. "Ages."

"I meant what I said before, though. You don't have to entertain me," John said after a few moments.

"I miss it, though. The way we were," Sherlock admitted. "I miss impressing you."

"You always impress me," John said, brushing fingers through Sherlock's curls.

"Things have been unbearably dull," Sherlock pouted. "Haven't had a good case for much too long."

"And your brain is going to atrophy, I know," John said somewhat teasingly.

"It will, it'll atrophy and then you'll leave because I'll be stupid and boring and normal," Sherlock said dramatically.

"You're adorable when you fish for compliments," John said, leaning in to kiss Sherlock again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to look put upon. It worked for a second until John pulled lightly on his hair and he couldn't stop the moan that made it past his lips. John chuckled and pulled again before sitting back.

"Sherlock Holmes, I think it's about time you took me to bed," he said with a straight face.

Sherlock huffed out a surprised sigh and nodded quickly before getting up and beckoning John to follow.


	26. Let's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, boys and girls, hope you enjoy!

John followed Sherlock to his bedroom, the one they'd both been using since the second night when Sherlock had pointed out that he would be sleeping with John from then on so it was stupid not to take the bigger bed in the downstairs bedroom. He always was rather pushy in his affections.

"Should I?" Sherlock started as he got to the bed, gesturing to his shirt front and looking suddenly much younger.

John took a deep breath and ran his hands up Sherlock's arms. The move made the taller man's eyes flit closed and John's chest seize. He took a step closer and thumbed open the second to top button, watching as Sherlock swallowed and his Adam's apple bobbed quickly.

"I've thought about this," John said, trying to keep from having a bloody panic attack right then and there. "Often, in fact."

Sherlock's hands clutched at his sides and he nodded sharply and cleared his throat.

"Tell me," he said, voice unsteady.

"After I talked to you on the phone for the first time," John admitted, undoing the rest of the buttons and running his hands down Sherlock's pale chest. "Your voice...cor." 

Sherlock's lips quirked and he seemed to relax a bit as John pushed his shirt down his shoulders and undid the buttons at his wrists. 

"And then when you threw the cup at the wall," John added, taking a step closer and lipping at Sherlock's chest. "You're impossible, you know that? Asking me to push you around. Had one off in the shower while you cleaned the bloody table."

The color that was touching high on Sherlock's cheeks darkened and he chewed his lip.

"Couldn't help myself after I felt you against me," John added, pulling Sherlock by the belt loops and rolling his hips so their lengths pressed together.

"John," Sherlock moaned.

"Mmm, I'm right here," John murmured as he pulled at Sherlock's neck until the taller man took the clue and leaned down to kiss him.

John's lips were wet and slick and Sherlock hummed deeply as he sucked and pulled and forced his tongue between them. John chuckled at how eager he was and let him lead.

Sherlock had never kissed anyone before John. It wasn't something he was upset about or anything, just a truth. He was strange, had always been so. He was strange and gay and that wasn't the best combination when you were gangly and your voice was changing and you were three years younger than everyone else in your class. So it just never happened, simple as that. And now, now that John was gripping his hips and making soft humming noises, Sherlock wondered if it was a bit silly to think it had been for a reason.

He pulled back and looked into John's eyes for a long second before huffing and tearing at the doctor's shirt. John chuckled and let himself be roughly disrobed, standing with his hands on his hips and a wide grin as Sherlock pulled his denims and pants down in one go. 

"Oh," Sherlock whispered, mouth forming a perfect circle, as he took in the sight of John's cock for the first time.

Well, now that he thought of it, John did walk like a man with quite a lot to be proud of. 

"You alright there?" John asked with a laugh, becuase Sherlock was staring, God, was he staring.

"I want to see how much I can fit in my mouth," Sherlock said, and then when he realised he had he blushed fiercely and looked away.

John's grin went toothy and he stepped out of the clothes pooled around his ankles and let his shirt drop to the floor before standing once again with his hands on his hips, Sherlock's obvious shock making him forget completely about his still healing scar, and amazingly enough, his limp.

"Go on then," he said, canting his hips. "It's all yours."

Sherlock knelt quickly and scrambled forward until his cheek was pressed warmly against John's groin. He closed his eyes and breathed out roughly before mouthing at the base in a way that had John breathless and his cock twitching. John moaned when he sat back and sucked the head into his mouth. It was intense, having the genius probing with his tongue like he was. 

John had never had someone do that, explore him with such intensity, and it was damn near overwhelming. He ran his fingers into Sherlock's curls and sighed as more of his length was drawn into that tight heat. 

Sherlock hummed around him and pressed closer still until he gagged and had to pull off, eyes wide and surprised. John looked down at him fondly as he caught his breath and then went back in for another try.

"You're fucking gorgeous," John panted as Sherlock tried to relax his jaw to fit more in.

Pale blue eyes looked up at him and John grunted as Sherlock sucked hard and began to bob his head slowly. The movements weren't exactly fluid and Sherlock was gripping at his hips quite painfully but John felt he really couldn't be arsed to care. It was all so bloody real and right then and he wasn't going to last. He pulled Sherlock's hair until the younger man sat back on his haunches and let his prick go.

"Perfect," he murmured, running his thumb across Sherlock's plump bottom lip.

"John," Sherlock moaned as he palmed himself through his trousers.

"Up on the bed," John replied.

Sherlock clambered up and lay on his back, fingers going immediately to undo his zip. John climbed up and kissed him as he slithered out of his trousers and pants and rolled out his side. He pulled Sherlock until he was kneeling over him and moaned into his mouth as their cocks aligned. Sherlock grunted and rolled his hips and then grunted again at the feeling of tight hot skin rubbing against him.

"I can't, I won't be able to," he panted, eyes wide as he pulled away from the kiss.

"Shh. It's okay, breathe," John said soothingly, hand brushing down his naked side. "What's wrong?"

"I want you inside me but I can't yet because I won't last and it would take at least ten minutes to ready me, I can't, I won't last that long and I'll come all over myself and you won't be able to-" Sherlock began frantically.

John kissed him to shut him up and then smiled gently when he pulled back.

"It's okay," he said softly, going back to rolling his hips. "How about we just do this for now?"

Sherlock made a small whining noise and nodded quickly before pressing his face to John's neck. John rolled his hips again Sherlock began to pant.

"Have you got lube?" John asked, hand gripping Sherlock's arsecheek.

After a bit of flailing and grunting Sherlock had managed to find it in the bedside table without ever leaving the bed. John grinned and took the small tube, pouring a generous amount into his hand and gripped both their pricks with it.

"Oh! Oh, John!" Sherlock shouted as John slicked them and started to stroke.

"I've wanted you for so long," John growled. "God, I need to come!"

Sherlock whimpered and thrust his hips and started to curse.

"You feel so good," John murmured. "Can't wait to be inside you, pressing into you over and over again."

"John, please!" Sherlock begged.

"I bet you'll be so tight for me, won't you?" John went on, knowing full well it would push Sherlock over the edge.

"Ah!" Sherlock shouted as his cock spasmed and he started to come, hips shaking and teeth worrying John's neck.

"Yes, come, fucking yes, oh, God," John panted, starting to come as well, fist milking them until they were both spent.

Sherlock whined low in his throat until he couldn't hold himself up any longer and then collapsed onto John with a huff.

"Fucking brilliant," John muttered as he tried to school his breathing.

"Mmm, I agree," Sherlock replied. "Although now I'm sticky and tired."

John giggled and poked Sherlock in the side until the younger man rolled off him so he could reach next to the bed for his discarded pants to clean them up. Sherlock hummed as John drew the soft material over his skin and then sighed happily when the doctor pulled the covers up.

"How long before we can go again?" Sherlock asked as he buried his nose in John's neck.

John snorted and pinched his arse.

"Let me sleep for a bit at least," John said with a yawn.

"Mmm, sleep," Sherlock agreed. "Yes, let's."


	27. Now And Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after and John and Sherlock go to dinner at the parent's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter! I'm so glad you all hung in with me and I hope you'll come back for whatever I write next!
> 
> Kate

John was surprised to find he slept through the night, not a nightmare in sight. His eyes flitted open and he smiled at Sherlock, the younger man already awake and staring at him. Sherlock's eyebrows drew together and a slight blush colored his cheeks.

"Morning," John said, hand going to rest on Sherlock's thigh.

"John," Sherlock said, voice rough from disuse.

"You look worried," John replied, suddenly worried himself. He didn't know what he'd do if Sherlock said it had been a mistake.

"My brother texted," Sherlock said with a scowl.

"Ah, the elusive Mycroft Holmes. What did he have to say?"

"Mummy was hoping we could come to dinner tonight. He said we've avoided it long enough," Sherlock replied, rolling onto his back and glaring at the ceiling as though it were the cause of all his discomfort.

"Probably right," John said moving so he could rest his head against Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock kissed John's forehead, completely amazed he was allowed to, and then made to sit up. He cleared his throat and slipped out of bed.

"I've some things to do before we go to my parent's tonight," he said, face a bit pinched. "Perhaps you would like to join me in the shower."

John chuckled at the formal invitation for shower sex and nodded, getting up with a wince and following Sherlock into the loo. He watched as Sherlock turned on the water and brushed his teeth, taking a place next to him at the sink and brushing his own.

Sherlock went into the medicine cabinet and pulled out John's pain pills and handed one over. John took it and held it in his hand while Sherlock filled a glass of water. He passed the glass over and looked on pointedly.

"Are you just going to stand there until I take it?" John asked a bit shortly.

"Yes. Don't be stubborn, that's my role," Sherlock said seriously.

John huffed out a laugh and took the pill without further discussion then followed Sherlock into the tub, crowding up behind him and kissing his shoulder. Sherlock hummed happily and picked up the shampoo. He turned to wet his hair and John kissed down his chest.

"Keep that up and I won't be able to concentrate on getting clean," he said as his eyes drifted closed.

"Maybe that's the point," John replied cheekily. "Get you a little dirty before you get clean."

Sherlock moaned as John gripped his buttocks and pressed his cock to his upper thigh.

"Beautiful," John murmured as he thrust his hips and massaged gently.

"John," Sherlock said, voice rumbling out of his chest.

"Yeah, love?" John asked as he took one pink nipple between his teeth.

Sherlock whined and thrust his hips.

"How do you want me?" John asked, letting go of the nipple and pressing a wet finger to Sherlock's arsehole.

"Oh, God, push me up against the wall. F-finger me," Sherlock whimpered.

John turned Sherlock around forcefully and pressed two of his fingers between his lips. Sherlock moaned around them and let saliva pool in his mouth. They were slick and dripping when John pulled them out and pressed one to Sherlock's entrance. 

"Oh," Sherlock moaned, head falling forward to rest against the cool tile. 

"Perfect," John whispered as he pressed into his tight heat.

Sherlock began to whimper as John pushed and pulled and added a second and then third finger, his hand finally falling down to encircle his prick.

"Tell me what you need," John said, beginning to rut against Sherlock's thigh.

"Put it in," Sherlock said, voice weak. "Just, just the tip."

John growled and leaned down to look as he pulled his fingers out of Sherlock and rubbed his prick up and down his cleft spreading precome over slick skin.

"Don't tease me," Sherlock scolded as his hand sped up.

John chuckled and pressed until just the head popped through the bit of resistance. Sherlock moaned something unholy and John began to stroke his prick as Sherlock's arsehole clenched around it.

"Gorgeous," John moaned, watching where the head of his cock disappeared into Sherlock's body. "Gonna come inside you. Is that what you want?"

"Oh, oh, yes," Sherlock said, hips stuttering and legs starting to shake.

"Are you close?" John asked, already feeling heat pooling in his belly.

"Yes, please, John," Sherlock whimpered.

"Go ahead, then," John said, doing a valiant job of not thrusting his hips.

Sherlock grunted and sped up his wrist and started to spill all over the wall, arsehole clenching and buttocks tightening with every spurt.

"Here comes," John mumbled. "Oh, hell, I'm coming."

Sherlock had barely got over the feeling of John spending inside him before the man pulled out and rubbed his thumb around the red rim and pushed some of his come back in. He shuddered and took a deep breath as John watched the come drip out and down his legs.

"You're a gorgeous mess, know that?" John asked in absolute amazement.

"And you're an insufferable pervert," Sherlock replied with a smirk.

"You say such nice things," John said with a slap to the younger man's arse. "Now let me clean you up."

Sherlock yelped and tried to give a disapproving look but John paid it no mind.

_____

John spent the rest of the day filling out applications at a few local clinics while Sherlock went to see an old family friend about something he dearly needed. When it was time for them to go to dinner both men were just getting back to the flat.

"Do we have to dress up?" John asked, pulling at his interview tie and lifting it over his head.

Sherlock refused to reply, instead going to flop down on the sofa and cover his head with a pillow. John rolled his eyes and went to look through his closet. Sherlock was still on the sofa when he returned in his favorite shirt and slipped into his shooting jacket.

"We have to leave now," John said, going to poke Sherlock in the side.

"I don't want to go," Sherlock replied, said reply coming rather muffled through the polyfil.

"Yeah, caught that. Up," John demanded.

Sherlock stood and shuffled to the front door with his head down and John followed with a grin on his face. 

_____

The weather was fairly mild so when they got to Sherlock's parent's house am hour later they were out having drinks on the patio. Sherlock got out of the cab first and waited for John to join him before walking up to the small brick patio and greeting his mother with a reluctant hug. The woman grinned at John and soon was enveloping him in a hug as well while Sherlock's father stood with his hands in his pockets talking to Sherlock. When Mummy finally broke away the tall man came over and shook John's hand.

"How is the shoulder doing?" he asked with a genuinely kind smile.

John swallowed and reflexively gripped his thigh.

"Good, yeah, uh, good. As good as can be expected, at least," John replied with a weak smile as he leaned on his cane.

"Good, good. Well, can I get you a drink?" the man asked.

John was about to say yes when a vaguely familiar man came out the front door and sauntered over. 

"I'm sorry," John started, "but have we met?"

Mycroft held his hand out, face blank.

"Yes, you did a rather good job sewing up my arm as I recall," Mycroft replied.

A look of recognition passed over John's face and he shook his hand roughly and clapped him on the shoulder, turning to Sherlock with a grin.

"Sherlock, how do you know Richard?" John asked. "We served together for a while."

Sherlock watched as his brother looked truly uncomfortable for the first time in a long while and was happy to break the news.

"This is my brother Mycroft," he said. "I believe he was undercover when you met him last."

"Knew there was something off about you," John said. "You up for a game of poker later?"

Sherlock was taken aback by the response and looked back and forth between John and Mycroft quickly. Mycroft apparently didn't understand the response either as his cheeks began to color.

"I suppose I could indulge for an old...friend," Mycroft said after a moment.

John smiled and nodded before turning back to Sherlock's father.

"I believe you were offering me a drink," he said jovially.

_____

Sherlock was surprised by the fact that the evening went smoothly. He'd expected John to be at least a little uncomfortable and was tickled to see that it was Mycroft in that position instead. He didn't even mind when John insisted they all play a game of poker over dessert and John won.

John collected his winnings, three pounds in coins, and went into the kitchen for another glass of brandy. Sherlock joined him and poured himself a glass of wine, taking a sip and working up a bit of courage.

"It's not too cold out. Would you like to sit in the garden?" he asked after a long pause.

John smiled and nodded and they made their way out into the dark, their drinks forgot inside. The garden had fairy lights surrounding it and as they walked closer John appreciated the way they lent a soft glow to Sherlock's face, the redness in his cheeks showing through it. The younger man stopped by a large oak and seemed at war with himself for a moment before he slipped his hand into John's and swallowed hard. When he spoke he didn't seem very sure of himself.

"I was wondering, seeing that things are going well and you're pretty much settled in, if you'd be horribly opposed to getting married," he said quickly. "Properly."

John drew in a deep breath and Sherlock's stomach knotted until he looked over to see John smiling fondly at him.

"Properly?" John asked.

"Yes, well, I know we're already married in the eyes of the law but I thought, due to recent developments-" Sherlock began nervously.

"Yes," John said, full on grin now making his eyes crinkle.

"Oh, good. That's..." Sherlock said, completely surprised for some reason to find John had acquiesced. 

"We'll need new rings," John said, thumb playing at the one on his finger.

"Yes, about that," Sherlock said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small box.

He opened it to reveal a new set of gold bands and pulled out the one meant for John. John grinned as Sherlock turned it over in his hand and then more fiercely when he held it out.

"I had them made today," Sherlock said, swallowing nervously. "New inscription and all."

John took the ring and turned it so the small amount of light there was caught in the inner rim. The inscription read 'now and forever'. John choked back a sob and dropped his cane where it was to pull Sherlock into a hug.

"You sentimental bastard," he murmured.

Sherlock hugged him back and hummed in agreement, "yes, well, don't tell anyone."

John chuckled and pulled back to slip his old wedding ring off and the new one on. Sherlock did the same and then put the old rings carefully in the box as John admired how the freshly buffed gold shone.

"I can't wait to be your husband," John said softly.

Sherlock took his hand and kissed his palm, "neither can I."


End file.
